Carl Maria von Clausewitz

On War

Translation by J. J. Graham,
revised by F. N. Maude

Abridged and with an Introduction

by Louise Willmot

WORDSWORTH CLASSICS
OF WORLD LITERATURE

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On War first published
by Wordsworth Editions Limited in 1997

Published as an ePublication 2013

ISBN 978 1 84870 475 6

Introduction © Louise Willmot 1997

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For my husband
ANTHONY JOHN RANSON
with love from your wife, the publisher
Eternally grateful for your
unconditional love

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Contents

Introduction

Book I: On the Nature of War

i. What is War?

ii. End and Means in War

iii. The Genius for War

iv. Of Danger in War

v. Of Bodily Exertion in War

vi. Information in War

vii. Friction in War

viii. Concluding Remarks

Book II: On the Theory of War

i. Branches of the Art of War

ii. On the Theory of War

iii. Art or Science of War

iv. Methodicism

v. Criticism

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vi. On Examples

Book III: Of Strategy in General

i. Strategy

ii. Elements of Strategy

iii. Moral Forces

iv. The Chief Moral Powers

v. Military Virtue of an Army

vi. Boldness

vii. Perseverance

viii. Superiority of Numbers

ix. The Surprise

x. Stratagem

xi. Assembly of Forces in Space

xii. Assembly of Forces in Time

xiii. Strategic Reserve

xiv. Economy of Forces

xv. Geometrical Element

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xvi. On the Suspension of the Act in War

xvii. On the Character of Modern War

xviii. Tension and Rest

Book IV: The Combat

i. Introductory

ii. Character of a Modern Battle

iii. The Combat in General

iv. The Combat in General (continuation)

v. On the Signification of the Combat

vi. Duration of Combat

vii. Decision of the Combat

viii. Mutual Understanding as to a Battle

ix. The Battle

x. Effects of Victory

xi. The Use of the Battle

xii. Strategic Means of Utilising Victory

xiii. Retreat After a Lost Battle

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Book V: Military Forces

iii. Relation of Power

iv. Relation of the Three Arms

xiv. Subsistence

xv. Base of Operations

xvi. Lines of Communication

Book VI: Defence

i. Offence and Defence

ii. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to each other

in Tactics

iii. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to each

other in Strategy

v. Character of Strategic Defensive

vi. Extent of the Means of Defence

vii. Mutual Action and Reaction of Attack and Defence

viii. Methods of Resistance

x. Fortresses

xi. Fortresses (continuation)

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xxv. Retreat into the Interior of the Country

xxvi. Arming the Nation

xxvii. Defence of a Theatre of War

Book VII: The Attack

ii. Nature of the Strategical Attack

iii. Of the Objects of Strategical Attack

iv. Decreasing Force of the Attack

v. Culminating Point of the Attack

vi. Destruction of the Enemy’s Armies

vii. The Offensive Battle

ix. Attack of Defensive Positions

x. Attack of an Entrenched Camp

Book VIII: Plan of War

i. Introduction

ii. Absolute and Real War

iii. A. Interdependence of the Parts in a War

B. Of the Magnitude of the Object of the War and the Efforts

to be Made

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iv. Ends in War More Precisely Defined

v. Ends in War More Precisely Defined (continuation)

vi. B. War as an Instrument of Policy

ix. Plan of War when the Destruction of the Enemy is the

Object

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Introduction

On War holds a unique place among writings on military

theory. Clausewitz himself expressed the hope that his study
‘would not be forgotten after two or three years, and might be
picked up more than once by those who are interested in the
subject’. This modest ambition has been more than fulfilled.
On War has been described as the only truly great book on its
subject, and the first to propose a comprehensive theory
applicable to every stage of military history and practice. Of
course, other writers have offered profound insights into
various aspects of war: in the ancient world, there is the great
study by Sun Tzu: The Art of War, dating approximately
from the fourth century BC; in more modern times, in
addition to the works of military strategists such as Fuller and
Liddell Hart, there are passages in the works of Machiavelli,
and, more recently, of Lenin, Trotsky, and Mao, to name only
a few. Yet On War continues to stand alone as a study of war
in its entirety. It is this comprehensiveness which ensures that
Clausewitz continues to be read, despite the fact that his
examples are drawn from the campaigns of Frederick the
Great and Napoleon Bonaparte in the late eighteenth and
early nineteenth centuries, and describe battles waged with
tactics and weaponry that were obsolete within decades of his
death in 1831.

Carl Maria von Clausewitz was born in Burg in 1780. He

joined the Prussian army as an ensign (Fahnenjunker) in the
34th Infantry Regiment in 1792, seeing his first action at the
age of thirteen as the armies of the First Coalition confronted
the armies of revolutionary France on the Rhine. In 1801,
during the peace between Prussia and France which followed,

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Clausewitz was admitted to the new Military Academy
(Kriegsakademie) in Berlin. It was here that he was
introduced to the teachings of the philosopher Immanuel Kant
(1724–1804), and here too that he became the protegé of the
soldier and reformer Gerd von Scharnhorst, the first director
of the Academy, who was to become a lasting influence on
his life. On graduating at the head of his class in 1803,
Clausewitz was appointed adjutant to Prince August of
Prussia. During this period he also met and fell in love with
Marie, the daughter of Count von Brühl. Though their
marriage was delayed for seven years by the resistance of her
family to a match with a social inferior, the relationship
brought Clausewitz lasting personal happiness. His widow
was to become the first editor of his work after his death.

When war between Prussia and France was renewed in 1806,

Clausewitz served on the Prussian general staff during the
disastrous campaigns against Napoleon, participating in the
defeat at Auerstadt and the subsequent retreat. He was
subsequently taken prisoner with Prince August and held in
captivity in France before being repatriated in 1808 following
the Peace of Tilsit. On his return, Clausewitz worked as an
assistant to Scharnhorst, helping to frame the army reforms
which were part of a much more ambitious project to remould
and modernise the Prussian state in the aftermath of defeat.

In the spring of 1812 King Frederick William III of Prussia

concluded an alliance with France. Along with some thirty
other officers, Clausewitz resigned his commission in protest.
He took service with the Russian army just as the French and
their allies invaded that country, serving as an adviser on the
staff and taking part in the great Russian defensive campaign
which culminated in the battle of Borodino. Early in 1813,

13
when Prussia abandoned the Napoleonic alliance, Clausewitz
returned to Berlin to help raise new armies to meet the French
threat. He served as an adviser to the Prussian army under
Blücher during the Wars of Liberation in that year, but was
not readmitted to the Prussian army until 1814 and then
merely as chief of staff to the Russo-German Legion in
northern Germany, far away from the battlefields. Only after
the first Peace of Paris was Clausewitz restored to the general
staff. In the final military campaigns against Napoleon he
served as chief of staff to General Thielmann’s Corps, which
served on the left flank of the allied forces in Belgium.
Clausewitz took no part in the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo
in 1815.

Clausewitz was promoted to the rank of major-general in

1818 and appointed director of the War College (Allgemeine
Kriegsschule). This was, however, a purely administrative
post, which gave him no opportunity either to teach his
theories or to influence the military thinking of the Prussian
officer corps. Apparently he had not been completely
forgiven for resigning his commission in 1812, and his
association with the reformer August von Gneisenau aroused
suspicion at the conservative Prussian court. For the next
twelve years, therefore, Clausewitz devoted much of his time
to his writing and the attempt to give coherent form to his
theories of war. The project was still not complete in 1830
when Clausewitz was posted away from the War College,
first to Breslau and then, a year later, as chief of staff to the
army sent to put down rebellion in Prussian Poland. His
duties there also involved the organisation of defensive
measures against the cholera epidemic which was sweeping
across Europe. However, Clausewitz himself contracted the
disease and died on 16 November 1831 at the age of fifty-one.

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This life history is crucial to an understanding of the man and
his work. First, we should note that, despite the fact that his
life was devoted to military affairs, Clausewitz remained both
by birth and by temperament an outsider in his chosen
profession. The aristocracy was the backbone of the Prussian
officer corps, and Clausewitz’s family was not aristocratic:
his father had received his commission only when Frederick
the Great was forced to open up the officer corps to the
middle classes during the Seven Years War (1756–63), and he
had been retired after the conflict when Frederick reduced the
size of his army and restored the aristocratic complexion of its
officer corps. Clausewitz was further distinguished from his
fellow officers by his solitary and studious temperament. Yet
it was precisely this combination of background and character
which enabled him to take a detached view of traditional
military thinking and to formulate an independent theory of
war. Second, though he saw action on numerous occasions,
Clausewitz was never given the position of command on the
battlefield which he sought. It is surely not being fanciful to
suggest that this omission strengthened his ambition to win
recognition in another, related field: that of military theory.
Third, all his military experiences had been in opposition to
revolutionary and Napoleonic France. Clausewitz had seen at
first hand the immense destructive power of the French
armies that had overrun Europe in the years before 1815.
Even after the defeat of Napoleon, it was by no means certain
that the danger of French aggression had been finally
removed. These experiences provided Clausewitz with the
most urgent and practical of reasons for writing: he wanted
On War to offer sound advice to his fellow professionals and
to assist them in warding off any future attack.

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Indeed, On War cannot be understood without reference to
the experience of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic
Wars, which transformed the conduct of war in Europe.
Before 1789 the armies of the European powers were
relatively small forces of professional soldiers, trained and
equipped to wage war in a manner that had changed little over
the preceding century, with tactics based on the fact that the
musket had an effective range of some fifty yards, and cannon
of three hundred. In consequence, battles in the
pre-Napoleonic era were fought by soldiers drawn up into
disciplined lines in order to concentrate fire at the enemy
across the battlefield. Such conflicts, bloody and expensive,
were avoided by the commanders of regular troops wherever
possible. Military theorists such as Henry Evans Lloyd
(1729–93) and Dietrich von Bülow (1757–1807) had
therefore evolved theories of war based on complex
manoeuvre, preferably waged on enemy territory, in which
the aim was to safeguard supply lines and to wear down the
enemy through a process of attrition rather than defeating him
in pitched battle.

The campaigns of Napoleon shattered these established rules

of warfare. In particular, the introduction by revolutionary
France of the levée en masse, a levy of all able-bodied men,
enabled the French to field huge armies of conscripts in place
of small armies of highly-trained regular soldiers. These
French troops, insufficiently trained to operate traditional
tactics, instead overwhelmed the smaller armies facing them
by sheer weight of numbers. Though Napoleon eventually
modified these tactics by the skilful use of artillery and
cavalry, the conduct of war was transformed. Moreover, this
style of fighting, extremely costly in terms of manpower and
of resources, was available only to a regime of a new type:

16
one with a significant degree of popular support, and with
troops inspired, at least during their greatest triumphs, by a
new ideology of revolutionary nationalism. Clausewitz, like
other statesmen and military thinkers of his era, was thus
confronted by a development which was to have profound
implications for political life and military strategy in Europe.

Knowledge of the profound changes wrought by the French

Revolution to society and the conduct of war lies at the heart
of Clausewitz’s writings and is one of the great strengths of
On War. Yet the other great strength of the work is its
practicality: Clausewitz takes the view that it is the task of the
commander to operate within the framework of the material
available to him – to make the most, in other words, of
whatever resources the state chooses or is able to provide.
The enduring interest of On War lies in this combination of
theory and practicality. In particular, Clausewitz makes
effective use of the dialectical method, which allows him to
compare and contrast various key elements of war – attack
and defence, means and ends, theory and practice – but
always with a view to offering useful insights for its conduct.

Clausewitz begins with the essential and simple definition of

war as ‘an act of violence intended to compel our opponent to
fulfil our will’ (Book I, i, 2). Immediately, however, he finds
the definition inadequate to describe the different kinds of
war it is possible to fight. The problem is solved by his
suggestion that there are in fact two types of war. In outlining
the first of these, he is clearly influenced by the teaching of
Kant and his concept of the Ding-an-sich (literally, ‘thing in
itself’). Clausewitz’s first type of war is a Kantian ‘ideal type’
– that is, an abstract notion of what war would be like if it
could be waged as an isolated act. The term he uses to

17
describe it is ‘absolute war’. According to the dictates of
logic, ‘absolute’ war would be waged until it ends with the
complete victory of one side over the other. Moreover, it
would always be conducted with the ‘utmost violence’: since
our enemy cannot be compelled to fulfil our will as long as he
retains even the slightest capacity to resist, logic demands that
unlimited force be used against him until all trace of
resistance is extinguished. In ‘absolute war’ there is no place
for moderation; indeed, since it threatens to undermine the
whole purpose of the conflict, it is nothing less than ‘an
absurdity’ (Book I, ii, 3).

However, Clausewitz is well aware that, in reality, war is

never an isolated act. Nor is it always waged with the
intention of bringing about the total defeat of the enemy and
achieving ‘absolute’ victory. On the contrary, war is
frequently much more restricted in scope, in terms both of the
objectives for which it is fought and the means with which it
is waged. In order to take account of these realities he outlines
his second type of war, which is ‘limited’ war. In the real
world, Clausewitz tells us, the conduct of war is inevitably
constrained by a series of factors, which he later terms
‘frictions’ (Book I, vii): these include the international
situation that forms the background to all conflicts, the
impossibility of landing the single, decisive blow that will
lead to complete victory, and the fact that results in war are
never absolute and permanent. Most important of all,
however, is the fact that war does not take place in a political
vacuum, but is fought for specific objectives which decisively
affect its conduct.

This emphasis by Clausewitz on the centrality of politics is

easily overlooked. However, it is one of his greatest

18
contributions to the study of war. Whereas previous military
thinkers had discussed war from a purely military standpoint,
virtually as a separate activity, On War emphasises that ‘the
only source of war is politics’. Even more than that: war is
‘simply the continuation of policy by other means’ (Book I, i,
24). This, perhaps the most famous – or infamous – sentence
in On War, has often been misinterpreted or, at least, only
partially understood, by his critics. Manifestly it is open to
interpretation as an expression of cynical militarism – as an
assertion that war is nothing more than a ‘normal’ part of
state policy. This view is encouraged by the fact that
Clausewitz shows no interest whatever in questions of
morality in warfare. Nevertheless, his argument is more
complex than his critics have allowed. In insisting on the
central role of politics, Clausewitz is also asserting that war
should never be waged for its own sake, but always with the
rational objective of protecting the state and its interests. The
political goal for which the war is being waged must never be
allowed to slip from view. Clausewitz goes still further: he
tells us that cabinets and governments must always retain
control over military developments and commanders, and that
it is ‘irrational’ to allow military men to take over the political
direction of war. War, in short, is too important to be left to
the generals.

Political objectives will decide not only why war is waged,

but also how. The more ambitious the political goal, the more
violent and akin to ‘absolute’ war will be the methods of
warfare used to achieve it; the more limited the goals, the
more restrained the military strategy is likely to be (Book I, i,
25). Clausewitz’s theories of ‘absolute’ and ‘limited’ war, and
his emphasis on the importance of politics, enable him to cite
with some admiration two very different military campaigns:

19
that of Napoleon, who used all the means at his disposal in
pursuit of his ambitious plans of conquest, and that of
Frederick the Great, who in 1760 followed a strategy of
husbanding his resources and using controlled force in order
to achieve the more limited objective of retaining his
conquests in Silesia.

How is war to be waged successfully in pursuit of its political

goals? On War refuses to provide easy answers to this
question. To Clausewitz, war is an extraordinarily complex
activity. Every war is unique because of the varying strengths
and weaknesses of the armies involved, the impossibility of
obtaining full and accurate intelligence about the enemy, the
variable terrain on which it is fought, the unpredictability of
the weather conditions, and the role played by sheer chance.
These factors combine to ensure that, at best, war can be
nothing more than ‘a calculation of probabilities’ (Book I, i,
20), and ‘of all branches of human activity the most like a
gambling game’ (Book I, i, 21). For these reasons he was
critical of the ‘endeavour to establish maxims, rules and even
systems for the conduct of war’ (Book II, ii, 6), since none
can guarantee success.

This uncertainty in war, Clausewitz tells us, ensures a crucial

role for ‘moral forces’. Armies and peoples are overcome as
much by a loss of the will to fight – by a collapse in morale –
as by military defeat. The military virtues and moral forces of
an army lie in its qualities of courage, endurance, enthusiasm,
obedience to command, and cohesiveness in defeat as well as
in victory. Further, the commitment of the ordinary soldiers to
‘the honour of its arms’ is what makes an army into a
formidable fighting force (Book III, v).

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However, Clausewitz’s greatest concern is with those ‘moral
forces’ that are located in the commander. Indeed, long
passages of On War are devoted to an analysis of the
attributes of the ideal commander which endow him with his
‘genius for war’. The great commander has many virtues –
including physical and moral courage, energy, presence of
mind, and staunchness – but the two to which Clausewitz
devotes particular attention are coup d’oeil and resolution. By
coup d’oeil he means the rare ability to grasp, at lightning
speed and as much by instinct as by intellect, precisely what
is happening on the battlefield and the steps that must be
taken. It is nothing less than the capacity to reach ‘the rapid
discovery of a truth which to the ordinary mind is either not
visible at all or becomes so only after long examination and
reflection’. Resolution, on the other hand, comprises the
determination of a commander to stick by a decision once
made, using strength of mind to dispel self-doubt about the
rightness of his course (Book I, iii).

Can such qualities be taught? Clausewitz is certain that, given

the uncertainties of war and the importance of such
intangibles as moral forces, there are no fixed rules for
commanders to learn that can guarantee them success. Yet
that does not mean that the teaching of military history and
theory is pointless: it still has a role to play so long as it does
not pretend to provide unfailing ‘directions for action’.
Within these limitations, a critical study of military history
can ‘educate the mind of the future leader in war, or rather
guide him in his self-instruction’ by broadening his mind and
his understanding. In no circumstances, however, must the
commander take any preconceptions with him to the
battlefield. There he must have the confidence to rely on his
own judgement of the situation (Book II, ii, 27).

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Despite his strictures on the futility of attempting to provide
set rules for the conduct of war, and his criticism of military
theorists who claimed to do so, Clausewitz nevertheless sets
out a number of principles for the guidance of commanders.
These relate both to overall strategy, which he defines as ‘the
use of combats for the object of the war’, and to tactics, which
is ‘the use of military forces in combat’ (Book II, i). The aim
in waging war, he argues, is to locate the enemy’s centre of
gravity, the focal point of his strength, and then to devote all
available means to attacking it (Book VI, xxvii). He lists three
potential centres of gravity: the enemy’s army, his capital,
and the army of a stronger ally. In general, however,
Clausewitz leaves no doubt that the defeat of the enemy’s
army is the most effective means of bringing him to his knees.
The objective, after all, is to overcome the enemy, which
requires ‘the destruction of his military force’ (Book IV, iii).

Elsewhere Clausewitz does modify, at least to an extent, the

brutal harshness of his strategic conception: first, by defining
the destruction of the enemy army in less stark terms, as ‘a
diminution of it relatively greater than that on our own side’
(Book IV, iv); and second, by accepting that the occupation of
foreign territory, or the forced surrender of the enemy army,
can have the effect of making pitched battle unnecessary.
Nevertheless, his critics are correct to point out that
Clausewitz takes enormous pains to place ‘the combat’ –
actual fighting – at the centre of his work, in what amounts to
a deliberate attack on military theorists who had concentrated
upon supply lines and campaigns of manoeuvre. This focus, it
can be argued, leads him to distort military theory by ignoring
other aspects of war which can be equally decisive in
achieving victory. Thus, Clausewitz has no interest in the
potential power of diplomacy to isolate an enemy and

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confront him with a hostile coalition so powerful as to make
his military success impossible. Perhaps more surprisingly, he
also ignores the economic and maritime dimension of warfare
– war at sea, waged with the aim of disrupting an enemy’s
overseas supply routes and depriving him of the economic
resources which enable him to fight. Here he neglects to take
account not only of the British tradition of naval warfare, but
also of the Continental System, developed by Napoleon after
1806 in an attempt to close continental ports to British
commerce. It may be that his own experiences, waging land
warfare against an enemy bordering the German states, were
responsible for this omission.

Once the enemy’s centre of gravity has been located, certain

principles can also guide the commander in the best way to
attack it. Clausewitz makes no bones about the simplicity of
his first principle: ‘The best strategy is always to be very
strong, first generally then at the decisive point’ (Book III,
xi). He explains that superiority in numbers is the most
important factor in deciding the result of a battle; it will
usually – though not always – be decisive. In consequence,
the first rule of strategy is ‘to enter the field with an army as
strong as possible’ (Book III, viii). When absolute superiority
in numbers is impossible, then the task of the commander will
be to ensure that a ‘relative one at the decisive point’ is
achieved. To the modern reader, such assertions may appear
obvious and even simplistic. However, as Clausewitz tells us,
military historians of his day frequently disregarded the
importance of numbers, while others went so far as to argue
that there was an optimum size which no army should exceed.

The most effective use of numerical superiority – and here

Clausewitz agrees with other strategists – is through surprise.

23
If the commander can successfully surround and then surprise
the enemy, the resulting attack can inflict serious damage on
him and do much to break his morale. Once surprise is
achieved, the utmost energy should be devoted to forcing
home the attack and following it through. Time and speed are
of the essence. Only the adoption of these principles will
enable the decisive blow to be struck. At such times, the
commander must approach as closely to the concept of
‘absolute’ war as conditions allow.

Thus far, Clausewitz has emphasised the advantages

possessed by the attacker in war. However, his military theory
is much richer and more complex. The problem of achieving
a decisive blow in war is enormously increased, he tells us, by
the simple fact that ‘the defensive form of war is in itself
stronger than the offensive’ (Book VI, i). Clausewitz devotes
the whole of Book VI to the art of defensive war, and returns
to the theme on several further occasions. Before we turn to
these comments, however, it is well to bear in mind that, for
Clausewitz, defence is essentially negative in its objectives. It
must be chosen only as a temporary expedient and abandoned
as soon as conditions allow. Employed in such a way, it can
be highly effective: his own experience of the Russian
campaign against Napoleon in 1812 had shown how a
brilliantly conceived and executed defensive campaign in the
interior could so weaken an enemy that defence could swiftly
be followed by successful attack. Defence, as Clausewitz
conceives it, is never merely passive. It is on this basis that he
analyses the advantages possessed by the defenders. Some of
these advantages are moral, and include inevitable political
sympathy for the victims of aggression. More important,
however, are the defenders’ familiarity with the terrain, their
short and more secure supply lines, their ability to choose the

24
place of engagement, and – on a more philosophical level –
the fact that ‘to preserve is easier than to acquire’ (Book VI,
i). Returning to the theme later, he argues that a well-defined,
‘sufficiently manned and well-defended entrenchment is, as a
rule, to be looked upon as an impregnable point’ (Book VII,
x). Such comments were far from generally accepted when
Clausewitz was writing, though they appear relatively
uncontroversial to generations born since the costly trench
warfare of 1914–18.

His interest in the potential of defensive war also leads

Clausewitz to discuss guerilla warfare, and makes him the
first Western strategist to do so. However, he insists that it
must be employed only in pursuit of a specific plan and in
co-ordination with the regular army. Certain conditions,
moreover, are essential for its success: it must be fought in the
interior of the country; it must not be decided by a single
blow but be employed with the aim of wearing down the
attackers over a period of time; the theatre of operations must
be relatively large; the country must be rough and
inaccessible, making it difficult for the invader to penetrate;
and the character of the people must be suited to this type of
operation. Twentieth-century guerilla and partisan warfare,
waged for example in eastern Europe during the Second
World War and in China by the Communists, was to prove
the validity of many of these principles. As the American
stategic thinker Bernard Brodie has noted, Mao Zedong’s
concept of ‘protracted war’ has much in common with the
writings of Clausewitz as well as those of Sun Tzu.

These, then, are the main principles laid down by Clausewitz

for the conduct of war. Let us end with a brief glance at their
influence on military thinking. For some thirty years after his

25
death in 1831, his ideas made little impact. More popular with
the general staffs of European armies were those among his
contemporaries who, like Jomini, emphasised formal
manoeuvres and rules of conduct, and who forsook the
ambiguity and complexity which Clausewitz insisted were an
integral part of war. This situation began to change only in the
1860s and 1870s. In particular, the open expression of
indebtedness by Helmuth von Moltke (1800–91), the military
architect of Prussia’s victories over Austria and France which
culminated in the unification of Germany in 1871, did much
to enhance the reputation of Clausewitz. From the 1870s until
the First World War, his teachings were taken up by officer
corps and general staffs not only in Germany, but elsewhere
in Europe. Yet, as Clausewitz himself had predicted, his
arguments were applied only selectively and their meaning
was thereby distorted. Particularly well-received was his
emphasis on the importance of ‘moral forces’ in battle:
determined leadership, perseverance, morale – those qualities
which the French describe as élan. Military strategists also
seized on those chapters in On War which emphasised the
importance of striking early, decisive blows at the enemy. On
the other hand, equally important aspects of his writing were
neglected. As we have seen, Clausewitz had argued that the
defensive is the stronger form of war. In the decades after his
death, moreover, the force of his arguments was increased by
the development of weapons he had not foreseen: by the
breech-loading rifle with ten times the range and rate of fire
of the Napoleonic musket, and – most of all – by the
machine-gun. Yet in 1914, almost without exception, the
military commanders who led their troops to war were
convinced of the superiority of the offensive; both the
German Schlieffen Plan and the French Plan XV, for
example, were based on the assumption that a decisive victory

26
could be achieved within weeks by a swift and crushing
attack. Even after the failure of these early strategies,
commanders on both sides proved desperately slow to
respond to the overwhelming evidence that soldiers in
well-entrenched positions, armed with machine-guns, were
able to withstand both artillery bombardment and massed
infantry assaults, and to inflict appalling casualties on the
troops sent to attack them.

In the aftermath of the First World War – and again, his

admirers would argue, as a result of a partial reading of
Clausewitz – there was a significant reaction against his
teachings, particularly in Britain and the United States. A
balanced assessment of On War was rendered even more
difficult to achieve by the obvious but complex links between
‘total war’ (in the sense of twentieth-century warfare between
industrialised nations, involving the mobilisation of all the
human and economic resources of the combatants) and the
Clausewitzian concept of ‘absolute war’ (in the sense of an
‘ideal type’ of war waged without moderation with the
objective of completely defeating the enemy). His insistence
on the importance of numbers and the crushing blow led him
to be dismissed by strategists such as Basil Liddell Hart as the
‘Mahdi of Mass’, an advocate of the most brute force who
had ignored more subtle means of achieving victory. The
Allied naval blockade, it was also argued, had done as much
to bring the Central Powers to their knees as any pitched
battle. Furthermore, the rapid development of air power
between the wars produced the concept of strategic bombing
offensives which, it was thought, might partially replace the
role of traditional combat by crippling both the enemy’s
economy and his morale. Yet both these developments have
also been used by admirers of Clausewitz to indicate the

27
continuing relevance of his theories, in particular his
insistence on the need to locate the enemy’s centre of gravity
– wherever it is to be found – and to subject it to sustained
attack. A more judicious assessment of the strengths and
weaknesses of On War has thus proved possible.

In 1945 the use of the atom bomb against Japan appeared to

undermine a central argument of Clausewitz: that ‘absolute
war’ was impossible in practice. Nuclear warfare offered the
terrifying prospect of complete victory achieved with a single,
decisive blow against an enemy’s civilian population. Yet
despite their destructive power, nuclear weapons have not
been used in war since Hiroshima and Nagasaki, while war
itself remains an apparently ineradicable part of the human
experience. The need to understand it, the various reasons for
which it is waged, the methods by which it is fought, the
balancing of political direction and military command that
determines its conduct, is as great as ever. As we face that
challenge, the bleak wisdom of Clausewitz still has much to
offer.

Louise Willmot

The Open University

28
Suggestions for Further Reading

Complete translation

M. Howard and P. Paret, Clausewitz: On War, Princeton

University Press 1976. This translation also includes Bernard
Brodie’s helpful guide to the reading of On War.

Biography of Clausewitz

R. Parkinson, Clausewitz: A Biography, Stein and Day 1971

Clausewitz and his Influence

R. Aron, Clausewitz: Philosopher of War, Routledge and

Kegan Paul 1983

B. Brodie, War and Politics, Macmillan 1973

M. Handel (ed.), Clausewitz and Modern Strategy, Cassell

1986

M. Howard, Clausewitz (Past Masters series), Oxford

University Press 1983

P. Paret, Clausewitz and the State, Oxford University Press

1976

P. Paret (ed.), Makers of Modern Strategy from Machiavelli

to the Nuclear Age, Clarendon Press 1986

29
P. Paret, Understanding War: Essays on Clausewitz and the
History of Military Power, Princeton University Press 1992

30
Note on the abridgement

On War was never completed to its author’s satisfaction:

Clausewitz left a memorandum describing it as ‘a collection
of materials from which it is intended to construct a theory of
war’. The work went through several drafts, and even as late
as 1827 Clausewitz began to rewrite it in order to take
account of his new insights. It consists of eight books, which
were published in three volumes in the translation by Colonel
J. J. Graham used here.

Clausewitz was fully content only with the very first chapter
of Book I, though the rest of that first Book is written with
great analytical power. Books II to VI are complex and
detailed, but were intended for further revision and are
sometimes repetitive and verbose, while Books VII and VIII
are largely a collection of notes and ‘sketches’. On War is
rarely published or read in its entirety. Yet, as the eminent
British historian and Clausewitz scholar Michael Howard has
pointed out, any attempt to provide an abridged version of
Clausewitz runs the risk of distorting his theories. The
procedure I have followed has therefore been to include all of
Books I to IV (on the nature of war, the theory of war,
strategy in general, and the combat). Many of Clausewitz’s
greatest insights and arguments are to be found here, and only
by reading at least some of the work in unabridged form can
the reader gain a true sense of his theories. The abridgement
proper begins with Book V, much of which deals with narrow
technical issues which have been omitted. On the other hand,
Book VI, on Defence, contains long passages of lasting
interest which are, I hope, reflected in the selection. Much of
Book VII, on Offence, is relatively tentative and repetitive,

31
and I have therefore been selective in choosing chapters from
it. Book VIII, which returns to the vital subject matter of
Book I and contains some of Clausewitz’s most cogent
arguments, is represented at greater length.

L. W.

32
On War

33
Book I

On the Nature of War

34
Chapter i

What is War?

1. Introduction

We propose to consider first the single elements of our

subject, then each branch or part, and, last of all, the whole, in
all its relations – therefore to advance from the simple to the
complex. But it is necessary for us to commence with a
glance at the nature of the whole, because it is particularly
necessary that in the consideration of any of the parts their
relation to the whole should be kept constantly in view.

2. Definition

We shall not enter into any of the abstruse definitions of war

used by publicists. We shall keep to the element of the thing
itself, to a duel. War is nothing but a duel on an extensive
scale. If we would conceive as a unit the countless number of
duels which make up a war, we shall do so best by supposing
to ourselves two wrestlers. Each strives by physical force to
compel the other to submit to his will: each endeavours to
throw his adversary, and thus render him incapable of further
resistance.

War therefore is an act of violence intended to compel our

opponent to fulfil our will.

Violence arms itself with the inventions of art and science in

order to contend against violence. Self-imposed restrictions,
almost imperceptible and hardly worth mentioning, termed

35
usages of international law, accompany it without essentially
impairing its power. Violence, that is to say, physical force
(for there is no moral force without the conception of states
and law), is therefore the means; the compulsory submission
of the enemy to our will is the ultimate object. In order to
attain this object fully, the enemy must be disarmed, and
disarmament becomes therefore the immediate object of
hostilities in theory. It takes the place of the final object, and
puts it aside as something we can eliminate from our
calculations.

3. Utmost use of force

Now, philanthropists may easily imagine there is a skilful

method of disarming and overcoming an enemy without
causing great bloodshed, and that this is the proper tendency
of the art of war. However plausible this may appear, still it is
an error which must be extirpated; for in such dangerous
things as war, the errors which proceed from a spirit of
benevolence are the worst. As the use of physical power to
the utmost extent by no means excludes the co-operation of
the intelligence, it follows that he who uses force unsparingly,
without reference to the bloodshed involved, must obtain a
superiority if his adversary uses less vigour in its application.
The former then dictates the law to the latter, and both
proceed to extremities to which the only limitations are those
imposed by the amount of counteracting force on each side.

This is the way in which the matter must be viewed, and it is

to no purpose, it is even against one’s own interest, to turn
away from the consideration of the real nature of the affair
because the horror of its elements excites repugnance.

36
If the wars of civilised people are less cruel and destructive
than those of savages, the difference arises from the social
condition both of states in themselves and in their relations to
each other. Out of this social condition and its relations war
arises, and by it war is subjected to conditions, is controlled
and modified. But these things do not belong to war itself;
they are only given conditions; and to introduce into the
philosophy of war itself a principle of moderation would be
an absurdity.

Two motives lead men to war: instinctive hostility and hostile

intention. In our definition of war, we have chosen as its
characteristic the latter of these elements, because it is the
most general. It is impossible to conceive the passion of
hatred of the wildest description, bordering on mere instinct,
without combining with it the idea of a hostile intention. On
the other hand, hostile intentions may often exist without
being accompanied by any, or at all events by any extreme,
hostility of feeling. Amongst savages views emanating from
the feelings, amongst civilised nations those emanating from
the understanding, have the predominance; but this difference
arises from attendant circumstances, existing institutions, etc.,
and, therefore, is not to be found necessarily in all cases,
although it prevails in the majority. In short, even the most
civilised nations may burn with passionate hatred of each
other.

We may see from this what a fallacy it would be to refer the

war of a civilised nation entirely to an intelligent act on the
part of the government, and to imagine it as continually
freeing itself more and more from all feeling of passion in
such a way that at last the physical masses of combatants

37
would no longer be required; in reality, their mere relations
would suffice – a kind of algebraic action.

Theory was beginning to drift in this direction until the facts

of the last war taught it better. If war is an act of force, it
belongs necessarily also to the feelings. If it does not
originate in the feelings, it reacts, more or less, upon them,
and the extent of this reaction depends not on the degree of
civilisation, but upon the importance and duration of the
interests involved.

Therefore, if we find civilised nations do not put their

prisoners to death, do not devastate towns and countries, this
is because their intelligence exercises greater influence on
their mode of carrying on war, and has taught them more
effectual means of applying force than these rude acts of mere
instinct. The invention of gunpowder, the constant progress of
improvements in the construction of firearms, are sufficient
proofs that the tendency to destroy the adversary which lies at
the bottom of the conception of war is in no way changed or
modified through the progress of civilisation.

We therefore repeat our proposition, that war is an act of

violence pushed to its utmost bounds; as one side dictates the
law to the other, there arises a sort of reciprocal action, which
logically must lead to an extreme. This is the first reciprocal
action, and the first extreme with which we meet (first
reciprocal action).

4. The aim is to disarm the enemy

38
We have already said that the aim of all action in war is to
disarm the enemy, and we shall now show that this,
theoretically at least, is indispensable.

If our opponent is to be made to comply with our will, we

must place him in a situation which is more oppressive to him
than the sacrifice which we demand, but the disadvantages of
this position must naturally not be of a transitory nature, at
least in appearance, otherwise the enemy, instead of yielding,
will hold out, in the prospect of a change for the better. Every
change in this position which is produced by a continuation of
the war should therefore be a change for the worse. The worst
condition in which a belligerent can be placed is that of being
completely disarmed. If, therefore, the enemy is to be reduced
to submission by an act of war, he must either be positively
disarmed or placed in such a position that he is threatened
with it. From this it follows that the disarming or overthrow
of the enemy, whichever we call it, must always be the aim of
warfare. Now war is always the shock of two hostile bodies in
collision, not the action of a living power upon an inanimate
mass, because an absolute state of endurance would not be
making war; therefore, what we have just said as to the aim of
action in war applies to both parties. Here, then, is another
case of reciprocal action. As long as the enemy is not
defeated, he may defeat me; then I shall be no longer my own
master; he will dictate the law to me as I did to him. This is
the second reciprocal action, and leads to a second extreme
(second reciprocal action).

5. Utmost exertion of powers

If we desire to defeat the enemy, we must proportion our

efforts to his powers of resistance. This is expressed by the

39
product of two factors which cannot be separated, namely, the
sum of available means and the strength of the will. The sum
of the available means may be estimated in a measure, as it
depends (although not entirely) upon numbers; but the
strength of volition is more difficult to determine, and can
only be estimated to a certain extent by the strength of the
motives. Granted we have obtained in this way an
approximation to the strength of the power to be contended
with, we can then take a review of our own means, and either
increase them so as to obtain a preponderance, or, in case we
have not the resources to effect this, then do our best by
increasing our means as far as possible. But the adversary
does the same; therefore, there is a new mutual enhancement,
which, in pure conception, must create a fresh effort towards
an extreme. This is the third case of reciprocal action, and a
third extreme with which we meet (third reciprocal action).

6. Modification in the reality

Thus reasoning in the abstract, the mind cannot stop short of

an extreme, because it has to deal with an extreme, with a
conflict of forces left to themselves, and obeying no other but
their own inner laws. If we should seek to deduce from the
pure conception of war an absolute point for the aim which
we shall propose and for the means which we shall apply, this
constant reciprocal action would involve us in extremes,
which would be nothing but a play of ideas produced by an
almost invisible train of logical subtleties. If, adhering closely
to the absolute, we try to avoid all difficulties by a stroke of
the pen, and insist with logical strictness that in every case the
extreme must be the object, and the utmost effort must be
exerted in that direction, such a stroke of the pen would be a
mere paper law, not by any means adapted to the real world.

40
Even supposing this extreme tension of forces was an
absolute which could easily be ascertained, still we must
admit that the human mind would hardly submit itself to this
kind of logical chimera. There would be in many cases an
unnecessary waste of power, which would be in opposition to
other principles of statecraft; an effort of will would be
required disproportioned to the proposed object, which
therefore it would be impossible to realise, for the human will
does not derive its impulse from logical subtleties.

But everything takes a different shape when we pass from

abstractions to reality. In the former, everything must be
subject to optimism, and we must imagine the one side as
well as the other striving after perfection and even attaining it.
Will this ever take place in reality? It will if,

1. War becomes a completely isolated act, which arises

suddenly, and is in no way connected with the previous
history of the combatant states.

2. If it is limited to a single solution, or to several

simultaneous solutions.

3. If it contains within itself the solution perfect and complete,

free from any reaction upon it, through a calculation
before-hand of the political situation which will follow from
it.

7. War is never an isolated act

With regard to the first point, neither of the two opponents is

an abstract person to the other, not even as regards that factor
in the sum of resistance which does not depend on objective

41
things, viz. the will. This will is not an entirely unknown
quantity; it indicates what it will be tomorrow by what it is
today. War does not spring up quite suddenly, it does not
spread to the full in a moment; each of the two opponents can,
therefore, form an opinion of the other, in a great measure,
from what he is and what he does, instead of judging of him
according to what he, strictly speaking, should be or should
do. But, now, man with his incomplete organisation is always
below the line of absolute perfection, and thus these
deficiencies, having an influence on both sides, become a
modifying principle.

8. War does not consist of a single instantaneous blow

The second point gives rise to the following considerations.

If war ended in a single solution, or a number of simultaneous

ones, then naturally all the preparations for the same would
have a tendency to the extreme, for an omission could not in
any way be repaired; the utmost, then, that the world of
reality could furnish as a guide for us would be the
preparations of the enemy, as far as they are known to us; all
the rest would fall into the domain of the abstract. But if the
result is made up from several successive acts, then naturally
that which precedes with all its phases may be taken as a
measure for that which will follow, and in this manner the
world of reality again takes the place of the abstract, and thus
modifies the effort towards the extreme.

Yet every war would necessarily resolve itself into a single

solution, or a sum of simultaneous results, if all the means
required for the struggle were raised at once, or could be at
once raised; for as one adverse result necessarily diminishes

42
the means, then if all the means have been applied in the first,
a second cannot properly be supposed. All hostile acts which
might follow would belong essentially to the first, and form in
reality only its duration.

But we have already seen that even in the preparation for war
the real world steps into the place of mere abstract conception
– a material standard into the place of the hypotheses of an
extreme: that therefore in that way both parties, by the
influence of the mutual reaction, remain below the line of
extreme effort, and therefore all forces are not at once brought
forward.

It lies also in the nature of these forces and their application

that they cannot all be brought into activity at the same time.
These forces are the armies actually on foot, the country, with
its superficial extent and its population, and the allies.

In point of fact, the country, with its superficial area and the
population, besides being the source of all military force,
constitutes in itself an integral part of the efficient quantities
in war, providing either the theatre of war or exercising a
considerable influence on the same.

Now, it is possible to bring all the movable military forces of

a country into operation at once, but not all fortresses, rivers,
mountains, people, etc. – in short, not the whole country,
unless it is so small that it may be completely embraced by
the first act of the war. Further, the co-operation of allies does
not depend on the will of the belligerents; and from the nature
of the political relations of states to each other, this
co-operation is frequently not afforded until after the war has

43
commenced, or it may be increased to restore the balance of
power.

That this part of the means of resistance, which cannot at once

be brought into activity, in many cases, is a much greater part
of the whole than might at first be supposed, and that it often
restores the balance of power, seriously affected by the great
force of the first decision, will be more fully shown hereafter.
Here it is sufficient to show that a complete concentration of
all available means in a moment of time is contradictory to
the nature of war.

Now this, in itself, furnishes no ground for relaxing our

efforts to accumulate strength to gain the first result, because
an unfavourable issue is always a disadvantage to which no
one would purposely expose himself, and also because the
first decision, although not the only one, still will have the
more influence on subsequent events, the greater it is in itself.

But the possibility of gaining a later result causes men to take

refuge in that expectation, owing to the repugnance in the
human mind to making excessive efforts; and therefore forces
are not concentrated and measures are not taken for the first
decision with that energy which would otherwise be used.
Whatever one belligerent omits from weakness, becomes to
the other a real objective ground for limiting his own efforts,
and thus again, through this reciprocal action, extreme
tendencies are brought down to efforts on a limited scale.

9. The result in war is never absolute

Lastly, even the final decision of a whole war is not always to

be regarded as absolute. The conquered state often sees in it

44
only a passing evil, which may be repaired in after times by
means of political combinations. How much this must modify
the degree of tension, and the vigour of the efforts made, is
evident in itself.

10. The probabilities of real life take the place of the

conceptions of the extreme and the absolute

In this manner, the whole act of war is removed from the

rigorous law of forces exerted to the utmost. If the extreme is
no longer to be apprehended, and no longer to be sought for,
it is left to the judgement to determine the limits for the
efforts to be made in place of it, and this can only be done on
the data furnished by the facts of the real world by the laws of
probability. Once the belligerents are no longer mere
conceptions, but individual states and governments, once the
war is no longer an ideal, but a definite substantial procedure,
then the reality will furnish the data to compute the unknown
qualities which are required to be found.

From the character, the measures, the situation of the

adversary, and the relations with which he is surrounded, each
side will draw conclusions by the law of probability as to the
designs of the other, and act accordingly.

11. The political object now reappears

Here the question which we had laid aside forces itself again
into consideration (see No. 2), viz. the political object of the
War. The law of the extreme, the view to disarm the
adversary, to overthrow him, has hitherto to a certain extent
usurped the place of this end or object. Just as this law loses
its force, the political object must again come forward. If the

45
whole consideration is a calculation of probability based on
definite persons and relations, then the political object, being
the original motive, must be an essential factor in the product.
The smaller the sacrifice we demand from our opponent, the
smaller, it may be expected, will be the means of resistance
which he will employ; but the smaller his preparation, the
smaller will ours require to be. Further, the smaller our
political object, the less value shall we set upon it, and the
more easily shall we be induced to give it up altogether.

Thus, therefore, the political object, as the original motive of

the war, will be the standard for determining both the aim of
the military force and also the amount of effort to be made.
This it cannot be in itself, but it is so in relation to both the
belligerent states, because we are concerned with realities, not
with mere abstractions. One and the same political object may
produce totally different effects upon different people, or even
upon the same people at different times; we can, therefore,
only admit the political object as the measure, by considering
it in its effects upon those masses which it is to move, and
consequently the nature of those masses also comes into
consideration. It is easy to see that thus the result may be very
different according as these masses are animated with a spirit
which will infuse vigour into the action or otherwise. It is
quite possible for such a state of feeling to exist between two
states that a very trifling political motive for war may produce
an effect quite disproportionate – in fact, a perfect explosion.

This applies to the efforts which the political object will call
forth in the two states, and to the aim which the military
action shall prescribe for itself. At times it may itself be that
aim, as, for example, the conquest of a province. At other
times the political object itself is not suitable for the aim of

46
military action; then such a one must be chosen as will be an
equivalent for it, and stand in its place as regards the
conclusion of peace. But also, in this, due attention to the
peculiar character of the states concerned is always supposed.
There are circumstances in which the equivalent must be
much greater than the political object, in order to secure the
latter. The political object will be so much the more the
standard of aim and effort, and have more influence in itself,
the more the masses are indifferent, the less that any mutual
feeling of hostility prevails in the two states from other
causes, and therefore there are cases where the political object
almost alone will be decisive.

If the aim of the military action is an equivalent for the

political object, that action will in general diminish as the
political object diminishes, and in a greater degree the more
the political object dominates. Thus it is explained how,
without any contradiction in itself, there may be wars of all
degrees of importance and energy, from a war of
extermination down to the mere use of an army of
observation. This, however, leads to a question of another
kind which we have hereafter to develop and answer.

12. A suspension in the action of war unexplained by

anything said as yet

However insignificant the political claims mutually advanced,

however weak the means put forth, however small the aim to
which military action is directed, can this action be suspended
even for a moment? This is a question which penetrates
deeply into the nature of the subject.

47
Every transaction requires for its accomplishment a certain
time which we call its duration. This may be longer or
shorter, according as the person acting throws more or less
dispatch into his movements.

About this more or less we shall not trouble ourselves here.

Each person acts in his own fashion; but the slow person does
not protract the thing because he wishes to spend more time
about it, but because by his nature he requires more time, and
if he made more haste would not do the thing so well. This
time, therefore, depends on subjective causes, and belongs to
the length, so called, of the action.

If we allow now to every action in war this, its length, then

we must assume, at first sight at least, that any expenditure of
time beyond this length, that is, every suspension of hostile
action, appears an absurdity; with respect to this it must not
be forgotten that we now speak not of the progress of one or
other of the two opponents, but of the general progress of the
whole action of the war.

13. There is only one cause which can suspend the action, and
this seems to be only possible on one side in any case

If two parties have armed themselves for strife, then a feeling

of animosity must have moved them to it; as long now as they
continue armed, that is, do not come to terms of peace, this
feeling must exist; and it can only be brought to a standstill by
either side by one single motive alone, which is, that he waits
for a more favourable moment for action. Now, at first sight,
it appears that this motive can never exist except on one side,
because it, eo ipso, must be prejudicial to the other. If the one

48
has an interest in acting, then the other must have an interest
in waiting.

A complete equilibrium of forces can never produce a

suspension of action, for during this suspension he who has
the positive object (that is, the assailant) must continue
progressing; for if we should imagine an equilibrium in this
way, that he who has the positive object, therefore the
strongest motive, can at the same time only command the
lesser means, so that the equation is made up by the product
of the motive and the power, then we must say, if no
alteration in this condition of equilibrium is to be expected,
the two parties must make peace; but if an alteration is to be
expected, then it can only be favourable to one side, and
therefore the other has a manifest interest to act without
delay. We see that the conception of an equilibrium cannot
explain a suspension of arms, but that it ends in the question
of the expectation of a more favourable moment.

Let us suppose, therefore, that one of two states has a positive

object, as, for instance, the conquest of one of the enemy’s
provinces – which is to be utilised in the settlement of peace.
After this conquest, his political object is accomplished, the
necessity for action ceases, and for him a pause ensues. If the
adversary is also contented with this solution, he will make
peace, if not, he must act. Now, if we suppose that in four
weeks he will be in a better condition to act, then he has
sufficient grounds for putting off the time of action.

But from that moment the logical course for the enemy
appears to be to act that he may not give the conquered party
the desired time. Of course, in this mode of reasoning a

49
complete insight into the state of circumstances on both sides
is supposed.

14. Thus a continuance of action will ensue which will

advance towards a climax

If this unbroken continuity of hostile operations really

existed, the effect would be that everything would again be
driven towards the extreme; for, irrespective of the effect of
such incessant activity in inflaming the feelings, and infusing
into the whole a greater degree of passion, a greater
elementary force, there would also follow from this
continuance of action a stricter continuity, a closer connection
between cause and effect, and thus every single action would
become of more importance, and consequently more replete
with danger.

But we know that the course of action in war has seldom or

never this unbroken continuity, and that there have been many
wars in which action occupied by far the smallest portion of
time employed, the whole of the rest being consumed in
inaction. It is impossible that this should be always an
anomaly; suspension of action in war must therefore be
possible, that is no contradiction in itself. We now proceed to
show how this is.

15. Here, therefore, the principle of polarity is brought into

requisition

As we have supposed the interests of one commander to be

always antagonistic to those of the other, we have assumed a
true polarity. We reserve a fuller explanation of this for

50
another chapter, merely making the following observation on
it at present.

The principle of polarity is only valid when it can be

conceived in one and the same thing, where the positive and
its opposite the negative completely destroy each other. In a
battle both sides strive to conquer; that is true polarity, for the
victory of the one side destroys that of the other. But when we
speak of two different things which have a common relation
external to themselves, then it is not the things but their
relations which have the polarity.

16. Attack and defence are things differing in kind and of

unequal force. Polarity is, therefore, not applicable to them

If there was only one form of war, to wit, the attack of the
enemy, therefore no defence; or, in other words, if the attack
was distinguished from the defence merely by the positive
motive, which the one has and the other has not, but the
methods of each were precisely one and the same: then in this
sort of fight every advantage gained on the one side would be
a corresponding disadvantage on the other, and true polarity
would exist.

But action in war is divided into two forms, attack and

defence, which, as we shall hereafter explain more
particularly, are very different and of unequal strength.
Polarity therefore lies in that to which both bear a relation, in
the decision, but not in the attack or defence itself.

If the one commander wishes the solution put off, the other
must wish to hasten it, but only by the same form of action. If
it is A’s interest not to attack his enemy at present, but four

51
weeks hence, then it is B’s interest to be attacked, not four
weeks hence, but at the present moment. This is the direct
antagonism of interests, but it by no means follows that it
would be for B’s interest to attack A at once. That is plainly
something totally different.

17. The effect of polarity is often destroyed by the superiority

of the defence over the attack, and thus the suspension of
action in war is explained

If the form of defence is stronger than that of offence, as we

shall hereafter show, the question arises, Is the advantage of a
deferred decision as great on the one side as the advantage of
the defensive form on the other? If it is not, then it cannot by
its counterweight overbalance the latter, and thus influence
the progress of the action of the war. We see, therefore, that
the impulsive force existing in the polarity of interests may be
lost in the difference between the strength of the offensive
and the defensive, and thereby become ineffectual.

If, therefore, that side for which the present is favourable, is

too weak to be able to dispense with the advantage of the
defensive, he must put up with the unfavourable prospects
which the future holds out; for it may still be better to fight a
defensive battle in the unpromising future than to assume the
offensive or make peace at present. Now, being convinced
that the superiority of the defensive (rightly understood) is
very great, and much greater than may appear at first sight,
we conceive that the greater number of those periods of
inaction which occur in war are thus explained without
involving any contradiction. The weaker the motives to action
are, the more will those motives be absorbed and neutralised
by this difference between attack and defence, the more

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frequently, therefore, will action in warfare be stopped, as
indeed experience teaches.

18. A second ground consists in the imperfect knowledge of

circumstances

But there is still another cause which may stop action in war,
viz. an incomplete view of the situation. Each commander can
only fully know his own position; that of his opponent can
only be known to him by reports, which are uncertain; he
may, therefore, form a wrong judgement with respect to it
upon data of this description, and, in consequence of that
error, he may suppose that the power of taking the initiative
rests with his adversary when it lies really with himself. This
want of perfect insight might certainly just as often occasion
an untimely action as untimely inaction, and hence it would in
itself no more contribute to delay than to accelerate action in
war. Still, it must always be regarded as one of the natural
causes which may bring action in war to a standstill without
involving a contradiction. But if we reflect how much more
we are inclined and induced to estimate the power of our
opponents too high than too low, because it lies in human
nature to do so, we shall admit that our imperfect insight into
facts in general must contribute very much to delay action in
war, and to modify the application of the principles pending
our conduct.

The possibility of a standstill brings into the action of war a

new modification, inasmuch as it dilutes that action with the
element of time, checks the influence or sense of danger in its
course, and increases the means of reinstating a lost balance
of force. The greater the tension of feelings from which the
war springs, the greater therefore the energy with which it is

53
carried on, so much the shorter will be the periods of inaction;
on the other hand, the weaker the principle of warlike activity,
the longer will be these periods: for powerful motives
increase the force of the will, and this, as we know, is always
a factor in the product of force.

19. Frequent periods of inaction in war remove it further from

the absolute, and make it still more a calculation of
probabilities

But the slower the action proceeds in war, the more frequent
and longer the periods of inaction, so much the more easily
can an error be repaired; therefore, so much the bolder a
general will be in his calculations, so much the more readily
will he keep them below the line of the absolute, and build
everything upon probabilities and conjecture. Thus, according
as the course of the war is more or less slow, more or less
time will be allowed for that which the nature of a concrete
case particularly requires, calculation of probability based on
given circumstances.

20. Therefore, the element of chance only is wanting to make

of war a game, and in that element it is least of all deficient

We see from the foregoing how much the objective nature of

war makes it a calculation of probabilities; now there is only
one single element still wanting to make it a game, and that
element it certainly is not without: it is chance. There is no
human affair which stands so constantly and so generally in
close connection with chance as war. But together with
chance, the accidental, and along with it good luck, occupy a
great place in war.

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21. War is a game both objectively and subjectively

If we now take a look at the subjective nature of war, that is

to say, at those conditions under which it is carried on, it will
appear to us still more like a game. Primarily the element in
which the operations of war are carried on is danger; but
which of all the moral qualities is the first in danger?
Courage. Now certainly courage is quite compatible with
prudent calculation but still they are things of quite a different
kind, essentially different qualities of the mind; on the other
hand, daring reliance on good fortune, boldness, rashness, are
only expressions of courage, and all these propensities of the
mind look for the fortuitous (or accidental), because it is their
element.

We see, therefore, how, from the commencement, the

absolute, the mathematical as it is called, nowhere finds any
sure basis in the calculations in the art of war; and that from
the outset there is a play of possibilities, probabilities, good
and bad luck, which spreads about with all the coarse and fine
threads of its web, and makes war of all branches of human
activity the most like a gambling game.

22. How this accords best with the human mind in general

Although our intellect always feels itself urged towards

clearness and certainty, still our mind often feels itself
attracted by uncertainty. Instead of threading its way with the
understanding along the narrow path of philosophical
investigations and logical conclusions, in order, almost
unconscious of itself, to arrive in spaces where it feels itself a
stranger, and where it seems to part from all well-known
objects, it prefers to remain with the imagination in the realms

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of chance and luck. Instead of living yonder on poor
necessity, it revels here in the wealth of possibilities;
animated thereby, courage then takes wings to itself, and
daring and danger make the element into which it launches
itself as a fearless swimmer plunges into the stream.

Shall theory leave it here, and move on, self-satisfied with

absolute conclusions and rules? Then it is of no practical use.
Theory must also take into account the human element; it
must accord a place to courage, to boldness, even to rashness.
The art of war has to deal with living and with moral forces,
the consequence of which is that it can never attain the
absolute and positive. There is therefore everywhere a margin
for the accidental, and just as much in the greatest things as in
the smallest. As there is room for this accidental on the one
hand, so on the other there must be courage and self-reliance
in proportion to the room available. If these qualities are
forthcoming in a high degree, the margin left may likewise be
great. Courage and self-reliance are, therefore, principles
quite essential to war; consequently, theory must only set up
such rules as allow ample scope for all degrees and varieties
of these necessary and noblest of military virtues. In daring
there may still be wisdom, and prudence as well, only they
are estimated by a different standard of value.

23. War is always a serious means for a serious object – its

more particular definition

Such is war; such the commander who conducts it; such the
theory which rules it. But war is no pastime; no mere passion
for venturing and winning; no work of a free enthusiasm: it is
a serious means for a serious object. All that appearance
which it wears from the varying hues of fortune, all that it

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assimilates into itself of the oscillations of passion, of
courage, of imagination, of enthusiasm, are only particular
properties of this means.

The war of a community – of whole nations, and particularly

of civilised nations – always starts from a political condition,
and is called forth by a political motive. It is, therefore, a
political act. Now if it was a perfect, unrestrained, and
absolute expression of force, as we had to deduce it from its
mere conception, then the moment it is called forth by policy
it would step into the place of policy, and as something quite
independent of it would set it aside, and only follow its own
laws, just as a mine at the moment of explosion cannot be
guided into any other direction than that which has been given
to it by preparatory arrangements. This is how the thing has
really been viewed hitherto, whenever a want of harmony
between policy and the conduct of a war has led to theoretical
distinctions of the kind. But it is not so, and the idea is
radically false. War in the real world, as we have already
seen, is not an extreme thing which expends itself at one
single discharge; it is the operation of powers which do not
develop themselves completely in the same manner and in the
same measure, but which at one time expand sufficiently to
overcome the resistance opposed by inertia or friction, while
at another they are too weak to produce an effect; it is
therefore, in a certain measure, a pulsation of violent force
more or less vehement, consequently making its discharge
and exhausting its powers more or less quickly – in other
words, conducting more or less quickly to the aim, but always
lasting long enough to admit of influence being exerted on it
in its course, so as to give it this or that direction, in short, to
be subject to the will of a guiding intelligence. Now, if we
reflect that war has its root in a political object, then naturally

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this original motive which called it into existence should also
continue the first and highest consideration in its conduct.
Still, the political object is no despotic lawgiver on that
account; it must accommodate itself to the nature of the
means, and though changes in these means may involve
modification in the political objective, the latter always
retains a prior right to consideration. Policy, therefore, is
interwoven with the whole action of war, and must exercise a
continuous influence upon it, as far as the nature of the forces
liberated by it will permit.

24. War is a mere continuation of policy by other means

We see, therefore, that war is not merely a political act, but

also a real political instrument, a continuation of political
commerce, a carrying out of the same by other means. All
beyond this which is strictly peculiar to war relates merely to
the peculiar nature of the means which it uses. That the
tendencies and views of policy shall not be incompatible with
these means, the art of war in general and the commander in
each particular case may demand, and this claim is truly not a
trifling one. But however powerfully this may react on
political views in particular cases, still it must always be
regarded as only a modification of them; for the political view
is the object, war is the means, and the mean must always
include the object in our conception.

25. Diversity in the nature of wars

The greater and the more powerful the motives of a war, the
more it affects the whole existence of a people. The more
violent the excitement which precedes the war, by so much
the nearer will the war approach to its abstract form, so much

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the more will it be directed to the destruction of the enemy, so
much the nearer will the military and political ends coincide,
so much the more purely military and less political the war
appears to be; but the weaker the motives and the tensions, so
much the less will the natural direction of the military element
– that is, force – be coincident with the direction which the
political element indicates; so much the more must, therefore,
the war become diverted from its natural direction, the
political object diverge from the aim of an ideal war, and the
war appear to become political.

But, that the reader may not form any false conceptions, we
must here observe that by this natural tendency of war we
only mean the philosophical, the strictly logical, and by no
means the tendency of forces actually engaged in conflict, by
which would be supposed to be included all the emotions and
passions of the combatants. No doubt in some cases these also
might be excited to such a degree as to be with difficulty
restrained and confined to the political road; but in most cases
such a contradiction will not arise, because by the existence
of such strenuous exertions a great plan in harmony therewith
would be implied. If the plan is directed only upon a small
object, then the impulses of feeling amongst the masses will
be also so weak that these masses will require to be
stimulated rather than repressed.

26. They may all be regarded as political acts

Returning now to the main subject, although it is true that in

one kind of war the political element seems almost to
disappear, whilst in another kind it occupies a very prominent
place, we may still affirm that the one is as political as the
other; for if we regard the state policy as the intelligence of

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the personified state, then amongst all the constellations in the
political sky whose movements it has to compute, those must
be included which arise when the nature of its relations
imposes the necessity of a great war. It is only if we
understand by policy not a true appreciation of affairs in
general, but the conventional conception of a cautious, subtle,
also dishonest craftiness, averse from violence, that the latter
kind of war may belong more to policy than the first.

27. Influence of this view on the right understanding of

military history, and on the foundation of theory

We see, therefore, in the first place, that under all

circumstances war is to be regarded not as an independent
thing, but as a political instrument; and it is only by taking
this point of view that we can avoid finding ourselves in
opposition to all military history. This is the only means of
unlocking the great book and making it intelligible. Secondly,
this view shows us how wars must differ in character
according to the nature of the motives and circumstances
from which they proceed.

Now, the first, the grandest, and most decisive act of

judgement which the statesman and general exercises is
rightly to understand in this respect the war in which he
engages, not to take it for something, or to wish to make of it
something, which by the nature of its relations it is impossible
for it to be. This is, therefore, the first, the most
comprehensive, of all strategical questions. We shall enter
into this more fully in treating of the plan of a war.

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For the present we content ourselves with having brought the
subject up to this point, and having thereby fixed the chief
point of view from which war and its theory are to be studied.

28. Result for theory

War is, therefore, not only chameleon-like in character,

because it changes its colour in some degree in each particular
case, but it is also, as a whole, in relation to the predominant
tendencies which are in it, a wonderful trinity, composed of
the original violence of its elements, hatred and animosity,
which may be looked upon as blind instinct; of the play of
probabilities and chance, which make it a free activity of the
soul; and of the subordinate nature of a political instrument,
by which it belongs purely to the reason.

The first of these three phases concerns more the people; the
second, more the general and his army; the third, more the
government. The passions which break forth in war must
already have a latent existence in the peoples. The range
which the display of courage and talents shall get in the realm
of probabilities and of chance depends on the particular
characteristics of the general and his army, but the political
objects belong to the government alone.

These three tendencies, which appear like so many different

lawgivers, are deeply rooted in the nature of the subject, and
at the same time variable in degree. A theory which would
leave any one of them out of account, or set up any arbitrary
relation between them, would immediately become involved
in such a contradiction with the reality, that it might be
regarded as destroyed at once by that alone.

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The problem is, therefore, that theory shall keep itself poised
in a manner between these three tendencies, as between three
points of attraction.

The way in which alone this difficult problem can be solved

we shall examine in the book on the ‘Theory of War’. In
every case the conception of war, as here defined, will be the
first ray of light which shows us the true foundation of theory,
and which first separates the great masses and allows us to
distinguish them from one another.

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Chapter ii

End and Means in War

Having in the foregoing chapter ascertained the complicated

and variable nature of war, we shall now occupy ourselves in
examining into the influence which this nature has upon the
end and means in war.

If we ask, first of all, for the object upon which the whole
effort of war is to be directed, in order that it may suffice for
the attainment of the political object, we shall find that it is
just as variable as are the political object, and the particular
circumstances of the war.

If, in the next place, we keep once more to the pure

conception of war, then we must say that the political object
properly lies out of its province, for if war is an act of
violence to compel the enemy to fulfil our will, then in every
case all depends on our overthrowing the enemy, that is,
disarming him, and on that alone. This object, developed from
abstract conceptions, but which is also the one aimed at in a
great many cases in reality, we shall, in the first place,
examine in this reality.

In connection with the plan of a campaign we shall hereafter

examine more closely into the meaning of disarming a nation,
but here we must at once draw a distinction between three
things, which, as three general objects, comprise everything
else within them. They are the military power, the country,
and the will of the enemy.

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The military power must be destroyed, that is, reduced to such
a state as not to be able to prosecute the war. This is the sense
in which we wish to be understood hereafter, whenever we
use the expression ‘destruction of the enemy’s military
power’ .

The country must be conquered, for out of the country a new

military force may be formed.

But even when both these things are done, still the war, that
is, the hostile feeling and action of hostile agencies, cannot be
considered as at an end as long as the will of the enemy is not
subdued also; that is, its government and its allies must be
forced into signing a peace, or the people into submission; for
whilst we are in full occupation of the country, the war may
break out afresh, either in the interior or through assistance
given by allies. No doubt, this may also take place after a
peace, but that shows nothing more than that every war does
not carry in itself the elements for a complete decision and
final settlement.

But even if this is the case, still with the conclusion of peace a
number of sparks are always extinguished which would have
smouldered on quietly, and the excitement of the passions
abates, because all those whose minds are disposed to peace,
of which in all nations and under all circumstances there is
always a great number, turn themselves away completely
from the road to resistance. Whatever may take place
subsequently, we must always look upon the object as
attained, and the business of war as ended, by a peace.

As protection of the country is the primary object for which

the military force exists, therefore the natural order is, that

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first of all this force should be destroyed, then the country
subdued; and through the effect of these two results, as well
as the position we then hold, the enemy should be forced to
make peace. Generally the destruction of the enemy’s force is
done by degrees, and in just the same measure the conquest of
the country follows immediately. The two likewise usually
react upon each other, because the loss of provinces occasions
a diminution of military force. But this order is by no means
necessary, and on that account it also does not always take
place. The enemy’s army, before it is sensibly weakened, may
retreat to the opposite side of the country, or even quite
outside of it. In this case, therefore, the greater part or the
whole of the country is conquered.

But this object of war in the abstract, this final means of

attaining the political object in which all others are combined,
the disarming the enemy, is rarely attained in practice and is
not a condition necessary to peace. Therefore it can in no wise
be set up in theory as a law. There are innumerable instances
of treaties in which peace has been settled before either party
could be looked upon as disarmed; indeed, even before the
balance of power had undergone any sensible alteration. Nay,
further, if we look at the case in the concrete, then we must
say that in a whole class of cases, the idea of a complete
defeat of the enemy would be a mere imaginative flight,
especially when the enemy is considerably superior.

The reason why the object deduced from the conception of

war is not adapted in general to real war lies in the difference
between the two, which is discussed in the preceding chapter.
If it was as pure theory gives it, then a war between two states
of very unequal military strength would appear an absurdity;
therefore impossible. At most, the inequality between the

65
physical forces might be such that it could be balanced by the
moral forces, and that would not go far with our present social
condition in Europe. Therefore, if we have seen wars take
place between states of very unequal power, that has been the
case because there is a wide difference between war in reality
and its original conception.

There are two considerations which as motives may

practically take the place of inability to continue the contest.
The first is the improbability, the second is the excessive
price, of success.

According to what we have seen in the foregoing chapter, war

must always set itself free from the strict law of logical
necessity, and seek aid from the calculation of probabilities;
and as this is so much the more the case, the more the war has
a bias that way, from the circumstances out of which it has
arisen – the smaller its motives are, and the excitement it has
raised – so it is also conceivable how out of this calculation of
probabilities even motives to peace may arise. War does not,
therefore, always require to be fought out until one party is
overthrown; and we may suppose that, when the motives and
passions are slight, a weak probability will suffice to move
that side to which it is unfavourable to give way. Now, were
the other side convinced of this beforehand, it is natural that
he would strive for this probability only, instead of first
wasting time and effort in the attempt to achieve the total
destruction of the enemy’s army.

Still more general in its influence on the resolution to peace is

the consideration of the expenditure of force already made,
and further required. As war is no act of blind passion, but is
dominated by the political object, therefore the value of that

66
object determines the measure of the sacrifices by which it is
to be purchased. This will be the case, not only as regards
extent, but also as regards duration. As soon, therefore, as the
required outlay becomes so great that the political object is no
longer equal in value, the object must be given up, and peace
will be the result.

We see, therefore, that in wars where one side cannot

completely disarm the other, the motives to peace on both
sides will rise or fall on each side according to the probability
of future success and the required outlay. If these motives
were equally strong on both sides, they would meet in the
centre of their political difference. Where they are strong on
one side, they might be weak on the other. If their amount is
only sufficient, peace will follow, but naturally to the
advantage of that side which has the weakest motive for its
conclusion. We purposely pass over here the difference which
the positive and negative character of the political end must
necessarily produce practically; for although that is, as we
shall hereafter show, of the highest importance, still we are
obliged to keep here to a more general point of view, because
the original political views in the course of the war change
very much, and at last may become totally different, just
because they are determined by results and probable events.

Now comes the question how to influence the probability of

success. In the first place, naturally by the same means which
we use when the object is the subjugation of the enemy, by
the destruction of his military force and the conquest of his
provinces; but these two means are not exactly of the same
import here as they would be in reference to that object. If we
attack the enemy’s army, it is a very different thing whether
we intend to follow up the first blow with a succession of

67
others, until the whole force is destroyed, or whether we mean
to content ourselves with a victory to shake the enemy’s
feeling of security, to convince him of our superiority, and to
instil into him a feeling of apprehension about the future. If
this is our object, we only go so far in the destruction of his
forces as is sufficient. In like manner, the conquest of the
enemy’s provinces is quite a different measure if the object is
not the destruction of the enemy’s army. In the latter case the
destruction of the army is the real effectual action, and the
taking of the provinces only a consequence of it; to take them
before the army had been defeated would always be looked
upon only as a necessary evil. On the other hand, if our views
are not directed upon the complete destruction of the enemy’s
force, and if we are sure that the enemy does not seek but
fears to bring matters to a bloody decision, the taking
possession of a weak or defenceless province is an advantage
in itself, and if this advantage is of sufficient importance to
make the enemy apprehensive about the general result, then it
may also be regarded as a shorter road to peace.

But now we come upon a peculiar means of influencing the

probability of the result without destroying the enemy’s army,
namely, upon the expeditions which have a direct connection
with political views. If there are any enterprises which are
particularly likely to break up the enemy’s alliances or make
them inoperative, to gain new alliances for ourselves, to raise
political powers in our own favour, etc., etc., then it is easy to
conceive how much these may increase the probability of
success, and become a shorter way towards our object than
the routing of the enemy’s forces.

The second question is how to act upon the enemy’s

expenditure in strength, that is, to raise the price of success.

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The enemy’s outlay in strength lies in the wear and tear of his
forces, consequently in the destruction of them on our part;
and in the loss of provinces, consequently the conquest of
them by us.

Here, again, on account of the various significations of these

means, so likewise it will be found that neither of them will
be identical in its signification in all cases if the objects are
different. The smallness in general of this difference must not
cause us perplexity, for in reality the weakest motives, the
finest shades of difference, often decide in favour of this or
that method of applying force. Our only business here is to
show that, certain conditions being supposed, the possibility
of attaining our purpose in different ways is no contradiction,
absurdity, nor even error.

Besides these two means, there are three other peculiar ways
of directly increasing the waste of the enemy’s force. The first
is invasion, that is the occupation of the enemy’s territory, not
with a view to keeping it, but in order to levy contributions
upon it, or to devastate it.

The immediate object here is neither the conquest of the

enemy’s territory nor the defeat of his armed force, but
merely to do him damage in a general way. The second way
is to select for the object of our enterprises those points at
which we can do the enemy most harm. Nothing is easier to
conceive than two different directions in which our force may
be employed, the first of which is to be preferred if our object
is to defeat the enemy’s army, while the other is more
advantageous if the defeat of the enemy is out of the question.
According to the usual mode of speaking, we should say that
the first is primarily military, the other more political. But if

69
we take our view from the highest point, both are equally
military, and neither the one nor the other can be eligible
unless it suits the circumstances of the case. The third, by far
the most important, from the great number of cases which it
embraces, is the wearing out of the enemy. We choose this
expression not only to explain our meaning in few words, but
because it represents the thing exactly, and is not so figurative
as may at first appear. The idea of wearing out in a struggle
amounts in practice to a gradual exhaustion of the physical
powers and of the will by the long continuance of exertion.

Now, if we want to overcome the enemy by the duration of

the contest, we must content ourselves with as small objects
as possible, for it is in the nature of the thing that a great end
requires a greater expenditure of force than a small one; but
the smallest object that we can propose to ourselves is simple
passive resistance, that is a combat without any positive view.
In this way, therefore, our means attain the greatest relative
value, and therefore the result is best secured. How far now
can this negative mode of proceeding be carried? Plainly not
to absolute passivity, for mere endurance would not be
fighting; and the defensive is an activity by which so much of
the enemy’s power must be destroyed that he must give up his
object. That alone is what we aim at in each single act, and
therein consists the negative nature of our object.

No doubt this negative object in its single act is not so

effective as the positive object in the same direction would
be, supposing it successful; but there is this difference in its
favour, that it succeeds more easily than the positive, and
therefore it holds out greater certainty of success; what is
wanting in the efficacy of its single act must be gained
through time, that is, through the duration of the contest, and

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therefore this negative intention, which constitutes the
principle of the pure defensive, is also the natural means of
overcoming the enemy by the duration of the combat, that is
of wearing him out.

Here lies the origin of that difference of Offensive and

Defensive, the influence of which prevails throughout the
whole province of war. We cannot at present pursue this
subject further than to observe that from this negative
intention are to be deduced all the advantages and all the
stronger forms of combat which are on the side of the
Defensive, and in which that philosophical-dynamic law
which exists between the greatness and the certainty of
success is realised. We shall resume the consideration of all
this hereafter.

If then the negative purpose, that is the concentration of all

the means into a state of pure resistance, affords a superiority
in the contest, and if this advantage is sufficient to balance
whatever superiority in numbers the adversary may have, then
the mere duration of the contest will suffice gradually to bring
the loss of force on the part of the adversary to a point at
which the political object can no longer be an equivalent, a
point at which, therefore, he must give up the contest. We see
then that this class of means, the wearing out of the enemy,
includes the great number of cases in which the weaker resists
the stronger.

Frederick the Great, during the Seven Years’ War, was never
strong enough to overthrow the Austrian monarchy; and if he
had tried to do so after the fashion of Charles the Twelfth, he
would inevitably have had to succumb himself. But after his
skilful application of the system of husbanding his resources

71
had shown the powers allied against him, through a seven
years’ struggle, that the actual expenditure of strength far
exceeded what they had at first anticipated, they made peace.

We see then that there are many ways to one’s object in war;
that the complete subjugation of the enemy is not essential in
every case; that the destruction of the enemy’s military force,
the conquest of the enemy’s provinces, the mere occupation
of them, the mere invasion of them – enterprises which are
aimed directly at political objects – lastly, a passive
expectation of the enemy’s blow, are all means which, each in
itself, may be used to force the enemy’s will according as the
peculiar circumstances of the case lead us to expect more
from the one or the other. We could still add to these a whole
category of shorter methods of gaining the end, which might
be called arguments ad hominem. What branch of human
affairs is there in which these sparks of individual spirit have
not made their appearance, surmounting all formal
considerations? And least of all can they fail to appear in war,
where the personal character of the combatants plays such an
important part, both in the cabinet and in the field. We limit
ourselves to pointing this out, as it would be pedantry to
attempt to reduce such influences into classes. Including
these, we may say that the number of possible ways of
reaching the object rises to infinity.

To avoid underestimating these different short roads to one’s

purpose, either estimating them only as rare exceptions, or
holding the difference which they cause in the conduct of war
as insignificant, we must bear in mind the diversity of
political objects which may cause a war – measure at a glance
the distance which there is between a death struggle for
political existence and a war which a forced or tottering

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alliance makes a matter of disagreeable duty. Between the
two innumerable gradations occur in practice. If we reject one
of these gradations in theory, we might with equal right reject
the whole, which would be tantamount to shutting the real
world completely out of sight.

These are the circumstances in general connected with the

aim which we have to pursue in war; let us now turn to the
means.

There is only one single means, it is the Fight. However

diversified this may be in form, however widely it may differ
from a rough vent of hatred and animosity in a hand-to-hand
encounter, whatever number of things may introduce
themselves which are not actual fighting, still it is always
implied in the conception of war that all the effects
manifested have their roots in the combat.

That this must always be so in the greatest diversity and

complication of the reality is proved in a very simple manner.
All that takes place in war takes place through armed forces,
but where the forces of war, i.e. armed men, are applied, there
the idea of fighting must of necessity be at the foundation.

All, therefore, that relates to forces of war – all that is

connected with their creation, maintenance, and application –
belongs to military activity.

Creation and maintenance are obviously only the means,

whilst application is the object.

The contest in war is not a contest of individual against

individual, but an organised whole, consisting of manifold

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parts; in this great whole we may distinguish units of two
kinds, the one determined by the subject, the other by the
object. In an army the mass of combatants ranges itself
always into an order of new units, which again form members
of a higher order. The combat of each of these members
forms, therefore, also a more or less distinct unit. Further, the
motive of the fight; therefore its object forms its unit.

Now, to each of these units which we distinguish in the

contest we attach the name of combat.

If the idea of combat lies at the foundation of every

application of armed power, then also the application of
armed force in general is nothing more than the determining
and arranging a certain number of combats.

Every activity in war, therefore, necessarily relates to the

combat either directly or indirectly. The soldier is levied,
clothed, armed, exercised, he sleeps, eats, drinks, and
marches, all merely to fight at the right time and place.

If, therefore, all the threads of military activity terminate in

the combat, we shall grasp them all when we settle the order
of the combats. Only from this order and its execution
proceed the effects, never directly from the conditions
preceding them. Now, in the combat all the action is directed
to the destruction of the enemy, or rather of his fighting
powers, for this lies in the conception of combat. The
destruction of the enemy’s fighting power is, therefore,
always the means to attain the object of the combat.

This object may likewise be the mere destruction of the

enemy’s armed force; but that is not by any means necessary,

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and it may be something quite different. Whenever, for
instance, as we have shown, the defeat of the enemy is not the
only means to attain the political object, whenever there are
other objects which may be pursued as the aim in a war, then
it follows of itself that such other objects may become the
object of particular acts of warfare, and therefore also the
object of combats.

But even those combats which, as subordinate acts, are in the

strict sense devoted to the destruction of the enemy’s fighting
force need not have that destruction itself as their first object.

If we think of the manifold parts of a great armed force, of the

number of circumstances which come into activity when it is
employed, then it is clear that the combat of such a force must
also require a manifold organisation, a subordinating of parts
and formation. There may and must naturally arise for
particular parts a number of objects which are not themselves
the destruction of the enemy’s armed force, and which, while
they certainly contribute to increase that destruction, do so
only in an indirect manner. If a battalion is ordered to drive
the enemy from a rising ground, or a bridge, etc., then
properly the occupation of any such locality is the real object,
the destruction of the enemy’s armed force which takes place
only the means or secondary matter. If the enemy can be
driven away merely by a demonstration, the object is attained
all the same; but this hill or bridge is, in point of fact, only
required as a means of increasing the gross amount of loss
inflicted on the enemy’s armed force. If this is the case on the
field of battle, much more must it be so on the whole theatre
of war, where not only one army is opposed to another, but
one state, one nation, one whole country to another. Here the
number of possible relations, and consequently possible

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combinations, is much greater, the diversity of measures
increased, and by the gradation of objects, each subordinate to
another, the first means employed is further apart from the
ultimate object.

It is therefore for many reasons possible that the object of a

combat is not the destruction of the enemy’s force, that is, of
the force immediately opposed to us, but that this only
appears as a means. But in all such cases it is no longer a
question of complete destruction, for the combat is here
nothing else but a measure of strength – has in itself no value
except only that of the present result, that is, of its decision.

But a measuring of strength may be effected in cases where

the opposing sides are very unequal by a mere comparative
estimate. In such cases no fighting will take place, and the
weaker will immediately give way.

If the object of a combat is not always the destruction of the

enemy’s forces therein engaged – and if its object can often
be attained as well without the combat taking place at all, by
merely making a resolve to fight, and by the circumstances to
which this resolution gives rise – then that explains how a
whole campaign may be carried on with great activity without
the actual combat playing any notable part in it.

That this may be so military history proves by a hundred

examples. How many of those cases can be justified, that is,
without involving a contradiction, and whether some of the
celebrities who rose out of them would stand criticism, we
shall leave undecided, for all we have to do with the matter is
to show the possibility of such a course of events in war.

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We have only one means in war – the battle; but this means,
by the infinite variety of paths in which it may be applied,
leads us into all the different ways which the multiplicity of
objects allows of, so that we seem to have gained nothing; but
that is not the case, for from this unity of means proceeds a
thread which assists the study of the subject, as it runs
through the whole web of military activity and holds it
together.

But we have considered the destruction of the enemy’s force

as one of the objects which may be pursued in war, and left
undecided what relative importance should be given to it
amongst other objects. In certain cases it will depend on
circumstances, and as a general question we have left its
value undetermined. We are once more brought back upon it,
and we shall be able to get an insight into the value which
must necessarily be accorded to it.

The combat is the single activity in war; in the combat the

destruction of the enemy opposed to us is the means to the
end; it is so even when the combat does not actually take
place, because in that case there lies at the root of the decision
the supposition at all events that this destruction is to be
regarded as beyond doubt. It follows, therefore, that the
destruction of the enemy’s military force is the
foundation-stone of all action in war, the great support of all
combinations, which rest upon it like the arch on its
abutments. All action, therefore, takes place on the
supposition that if the solution by force of arms which lies at
its foundation should be realised, it will be a favourable one.
The decision by arms is, for all operations in war, great and
small, what cash payment is in bill transactions. However
remote from each other these relations, however seldom the

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realisation may take place, still it can never entirely fail to
occur.

If the decision by arms lies at the foundation of all

combinations, then it follows that the enemy can defeat each
of them by gaining a victory on the field, not merely in the
one on which our combination directly depends, but also in
any other encounter, if it is only important enough; for every
important decision by arms – that is, destruction of the
enemy’s forces – reacts upon all preceding it, because, like a
liquid element, they tend to bring themselves to a level.

Thus, the destruction of the enemy’s armed force appears,

therefore, always as the superior and more effectual means, to
which all others must give way.

It is, however, only when there is a supposed equality in all

other conditions that we can ascribe to the destruction of the
enemy’s armed force the greater efficacy. It would, therefore,
be a great mistake to draw the conclusion that a blind dash
must always gain the victory over skill and caution. An
unskilful attack would lead to the destruction of our own and
not of the enemy’s force, and therefore is not what is here
meant. The superior efficacy belongs not to the means but to
the end, and we are only comparing the effect of one realised
purpose with the other.

If we speak of the destruction of the enemy’s armed force, we

must expressly point out that nothing obliges us to confine
this idea to the mere physical force; on the contrary, the moral
is necessarily implied as well, because both in fact are
interwoven with each other, even in the most minute details,
and therefore cannot be separated. But it is just in connection

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with the inevitable effect which has been referred to, of a
great act of destruction (a great victory) upon all other
decisions by arms, that this moral element is most fluid, if we
may use that expression, and therefore distributes itself the
most easily through all the parts.

Against the far superior worth which the destruction of the

enemy’s armed force has over all other means stands the
expense and risk of this means, and it is only to avoid these
that any other means are taken. That these must be costly
stands to reason, for the waste of our own military forces
must, ceteris paribus, always be greater the more our aim is
directed upon the destruction of the enemy’s power.

The danger lies in this, that the greater efficacy which we

seek recoils on ourselves, and therefore has worse
consequences in case we fail of success.

Other methods are, therefore, less costly when they succeed,

less dangerous when they fail; but in this is necessarily lodged
the condition that they are only opposed to similar ones, that
is, that the enemy acts on the same principle; for if the enemy
should choose the way of a great decision by arms, our means
must on that account be changed against our will, in order to
correspond with his. Then all depends on the issue of the act
of destruction; but of course it is evident that, ceteris paribus,
in this act we must be at a disadvantage in all respects
because our views and our means had been directed in part
upon other objects, which is not the case with the enemy.
Two different objects of which one is not part of the other
exclude each other, and therefore a force which may be
applicable for the one may not serve for the other. If,
therefore, one of two belligerents is determined to seek the

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great decision by arms, then he has a high probability of
success, as soon as he is certain his opponent will not take
that way, but follows a different object; and everyone who
sets before himself any such other aim only does so in a
reasonable manner, provided he acts on the supposition that
his adversary has as little intention as he has of resorting to
the great decision by arms.

But what we have here said of another direction of views and

forces relates only to other positive objects, which we may
propose to ourselves in war, besides the destruction of the
enemy’s force, not by any means to the pure defensive, which
may be adopted with a view thereby to exhaust the enemy’s
forces. In the pure defensive the positive object is wanting,
and therefore, while on the defensive, our forces cannot at the
same time be directed on other objects; they can only be
employed to defeat the intentions of the enemy.

We have now to consider the opposite of the destruction of

the enemy’s armed force, that is to say, the preservation of
our own. These two efforts always go together, as they
mutually act and react on each other; they are integral parts of
one and the same view, and we have only to ascertain what
effect is produced when one or the other has the
predominance. The endeavour to destroy the enemy’s force
has a positive object, and leads to positive results, of which
the final aim is the conquest of the enemy. The preservation
of our own forces has a negative object, leads therefore to the
defeat of the enemy’s intentions, that is to pure resistance, of
which the final aim can be nothing more than to prolong the
duration of the contest, so that the enemy shall exhaust
himself in it.

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The effort with a positive object calls into existence the act of
destruction; the effort with the negative object awaits it.

How far this state of expectation should and may be carried

we shall enter into more particularly in the theory of attack
and defence, at the origin of which we again find ourselves.
Here we shall content ourselves with saying that the awaiting
must be no absolute endurance, and that in the action bound
up with it the destruction of the enemy’s armed force engaged
in this conflict may be the aim just as well as anything else. It
would therefore be a great error in the fundamental idea to
suppose that the consequence of the negative course is that we
are precluded from choosing the destruction of the enemy’s
military force as our object, and must prefer a bloodless
solution. The advantage which the negative effort gives may
certainly lead to that, but only at the risk of its not being the
most advisable method, as that question is dependent on
totally different conditions, resting not with ourselves but
with our opponents. This other bloodless way cannot,
therefore, be looked upon at all as the natural means of
satisfying our great anxiety to spare our forces; on the
contrary, when circumstances are not favourable, it would be
the means of completely ruining them. Very many generals
have fallen into this error, and been ruined by it. The only
necessary effect resulting from the superiority of the negative
effort is the delay of the decision, so that the party acting
takes refuge in that way, as it were, in the expectation of the
decisive moment. The consequence of that is generally the
postponement of the action as much as possible in time, and
also in space, in so far as space is in connection with it. If the
moment has arrived in which this can no longer be done
without ruinous disadvantage, then the advantage of the
negative must be considered as exhausted, and then comes

81
forward unchanged the effort for the destruction of the
enemy’s force, which was kept back by a counterpoise, but
never discarded.

We have seen, therefore, in the foregoing reflections, that

there are many ways to the aim, that is, to the attainment of
the political object; but that the only means is the combat, and
that consequently everything is subject to a supreme law:
which is the decision by arms; that where this is really
demanded by one, it is a redress which cannot be refused by
the other; that, therefore, a belligerent who takes any other
way must make sure that his opponent will not take this
means of redress, or his cause may be lost in that supreme
court; hence therefore the destruction of the enemy’s armed
force, amongst all the objects which can be pursued in war,
appears always as the one which overrules all others.

What may be achieved by combinations of another kind in

war we shall only learn in the sequel, and naturally only by
degrees. We content ourselves here with acknowledging in
general their possibility, as something pointing to the
difference between the reality and the conception, and to the
influence of particular circumstances. But we could not avoid
showing at once that the bloody solution of the crisis, the
effort for the destruction of the enemy’s force, is the
first-born son of war. If when political objects are
unimportant, motives weak, the excitement of forces small, a
cautious commander tries in all kinds of ways, without great
crises and bloody solutions, to twist himself skilfully into a
peace through the characteristic weaknesses of his enemy in
the field and in the cabinet, we have no right to find fault with
him, if the premises on which he acts are well founded and
justified by success; still we must require him to remember

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that he only travels on forbidden tracks, where the god of war
may surprise him; that he ought always to keep his eye on the
enemy, in order that he may not have to defend himself with a
dress rapier if the enemy takes up a sharp sword.

The consequences of the nature of war, how ends and means

act in it, how in the modifications of reality it deviates
sometimes more, sometimes less, from its strict original
conception, fluctuating backwards and forwards, yet always
remaining under that strict conception as under a supreme
law: all this we must retain before us, and bear constantly in
mind in the consideration of each of the succeeding subjects,
if we would rightly comprehend their true relations and
proper importance, and not become involved incessantly in
the most glaring contradictions with the reality, and at last
with our own selves.

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Chapter iii

The Genius for War

Every special calling in life, if it is to be followed with

success, requires peculiar qualifications of understanding and
soul. Where these are of a high order, and manifest
themselves by extraordinary achievements, the mind to which
they belong is termed genius.

We know very well that this word is used in many

significations which are very different both in extent and
nature, and that with many of these significations it is a very
difficult task to define the essence of genius; but as we neither
profess to be philosopher nor grammarian, we must be
allowed to keep to the meaning usual in ordinary language,
and to understand by ‘genius’ a very high mental capacity for
certain employments.

We wish to stop for a moment over this faculty and dignity of

the mind, in order to vindicate its title, and to explain more
fully the meaning of the conception. But we shall not dwell
on that (genius) which has obtained its title through a very
great talent, on genius properly so called, that is a conception
which has no defined limits. What we have to do is to bring
under consider-ation every common tendency of the powers
of the mind and soul towards the business of war, the whole
of which common tendencies we may look upon as the
essence of military genius. We say ‘common’, for just therein
consists military genius, that it is not one single quality
bearing upon war, as, for instance, courage, while other
qualities of mind and soul are wanting or have a direction

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which is unserviceable for war, but that it is an harmonious
association of powers, in which one or other may
predominate, but none must be in opposition.

If every combatant required to be more or less endowed with

military genius, then our armies would be very weak; for as it
implies a peculiar bent of the intelligent powers, therefore it
can only rarely be found where the mental powers of a people
are called into requisition and trained in many different ways.
The fewer the employments followed by a nation, the more
that of arms predominates, so much the more prevalent will
military genius also be found. But this merely applies to its
prevalence, by no means to its degree, for that depends on the
general state of intellectual culture in the country. If we look
at a wild, warlike race, then we find a warlike spirit in
individuals much more common than in a civilised people; for
in the former almost every warrior possesses it, whilst in the
civilised whole, masses are only carried away by it from
necessity, never by inclination. But amongst uncivilised
people we never find a really great general, and very seldom
what we can properly call a military genius, because that
requires a development of the intelligent powers which cannot
be found in an uncivilised state. That a civilised people may
also have a warlike tendency and development is a matter of
course; and the more this is general, the more frequently also
will military spirit be found in individuals in their armies.
Now as this coincides in such case with the higher degree of
civilisation, therefore from such nations have issued forth the
most brilliant military exploits, as the Romans and the French
have exemplified. The greatest names in these and in all other
nations that have been renowned in war belong strictly to
epochs of higher culture.

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From this we may infer how great a share the intelligent
powers have in superior military genius. We shall now look
more closely into this point.

War is the province of danger, and therefore courage above

all things is the first quality of a warrior.

Courage is of two kinds: first, physical courage, or courage in

presence of danger to the person; and next, moral courage, or
courage before responsibility, whether it be before the
judgement-seat of external authority, or of the inner power,
the conscience. We only speak here of the first.

Courage before danger to the person, again, is of two kinds.

First, it may be indifference to danger, whether proceeding
from the organism of the individual, contempt of death, or
habit: in any of these cases it is to be regarded as a permanent
condition.

Secondly, courage may proceed from positive motives, such

as personal pride, patriotism, enthusiasm of any kind. In this
case courage is not so much a normal condition as an impulse.

We may conceive that the two kinds act differently. The first
kind is more certain, because it has become a second nature,
never forsakes the man; the second often leads him farther. In
the first there is more of firmness, in the second, of boldness.
The first leaves the judgement cooler, the second raises its
power at times, but often bewilders it. The two combined
make up the most perfect kind of courage.

War is the province of physical exertion and suffering. In

order not to be completely overcome by them, a certain

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strength of body and mind is required, which, either natural or
acquired, produces indifference to them. With these
qualifications, under the guidance of simply a sound
understanding, a man is at once a proper instrument for war;
and these are the qualifications so generally to be met with
amongst wild and half-civilised tribes. If we go further in the
demands which war makes on its votaries, then we find the
powers of the understanding predominating. War is the
province of uncertainty: three-fourths of those things upon
which action in war must be calculated, are hidden more or
less in the clouds of great uncertainty. Here, then, above all a
fine and penetrating mind is called for, to search out the truth
by the tact of its judgement.

An average intellect may, at one time, perhaps hit upon this

truth by accident; an extraordinary courage, at another, may
compensate for the want of this tact; but in the majority of
cases the average result will always bring to light the deficient
understanding.

War is the province of chance. In no sphere of human activity

is such a margin to be left for this intruder, because none is so
much in constant contact with him on all sides. He increases
the uncertainty of every circumstance, and deranges the
course of events.

From this uncertainty of all intelligence and suppositions, this

continual interposition of chance, the actor in war constantly
finds things different from his expectations; and this cannot
fail to have an influence on his plans, or at least on the
presumptions connected with these plans. If this influence is
so great as to render the predetermined plan completely
nugatory, then, as a rule, a new one must be substituted in its

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place; but at the moment the necessary data are often wanting
for this, because in the course of action circumstances press
for immediate decision, and allow no time to look about for
fresh data, often not enough for mature consideration.

But it more often happens that the correction of one premise,

and the knowledge of chance events which have arisen, are
not sufficient to overthrow our plans completely, but only
suffice to produce hesitation. Our knowledge of
circumstances has increased, but our uncertainty, instead of
having diminished, has only increased. The reason of this is,
that we do not gain all our experience at once, but by degrees;
thus our determinations continue to be assailed incessantly by
fresh experience; and the mind, if we may use the expression,
must always be ‘under arms’.

Now, if it is to get safely through this perpetual conflict with

the unexpected, two qualities are indispensable: in the first
place an intellect which, even in the midst of this intense
obscurity, is not without some traces of inner light, which
lead to the truth, and then the courage to follow this faint
light. The first is figuratively expressed by the French phrase
coup d’oeil. The other is resolution. As the battle is the
feature in war to which attention was originally chiefly
directed, and as time and space are important elements in it,
more particularly when cavalry with their rapid decisions
were the chief arm, the idea of rapid and correct decision
related in the first instance to the estimation of these two
elements, and to denote the idea an expression was adopted
which actually only points to a correct judgement by eye.
Many teachers of the art of war then gave this limited
signification as the definition of coup d’oeil. But it is
undeniable that all able decisions formed in the moment of

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action soon came to be understood by the expression, as, for
instance, the hitting upon the right point of attack, etc. It is,
therefore, not only the physical, but more frequently the
mental eye which is meant in coup d’oeil. Naturally, the
expression, like the thing, is always more in its place in the
field of tactics: still, it must not be wanting in strategy,
inasmuch as in it rapid decisions are often necessary. If we
strip this conception of that which the expression has given it
of the over-figurative and restricted, then it amounts simply to
the rapid discovery of a truth which to the ordinary mind is
either not visible at all or only becomes so after long
examination and reflection.

Resolution is an act of courage in single instances, and if it

becomes a characteristic trait, it is a habit of the mind. But
here we do not mean courage in face of bodily danger, but in
face of responsibility, therefore to a certain extent against
moral danger. This has been often called courage d’esprit, on
the ground that it springs from the understanding;
nevertheless, it is no act of the understanding on that account;
it is an act of feeling. Mere intelligence is still not courage,
for we often see the cleverest people devoid of resolution.
The mind must, therefore, first awaken the feeling of courage,
and then be guided and supported by it, because in
momentary emergencies the man is swayed more by his
feelings than his thoughts.

We have assigned to resolution the office of removing the

torments of doubt, and the dangers of delay, when there are
no sufficient motives for guidance. Through the unscrupulous
use of language which is prevalent, this term is often applied
to the mere propensity to daring, to bravery, boldness, or
temerity. But, when there are sufficient motives in the man,

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let them be objective or subjective, true or false, we have no
right to speak of his resolution; for, when we do so, we put
ourselves in his place, and we throw into the scale doubts
which did not exist with him.

Here there is no question of anything but of strength and

weakness. We are not pedantic enough to dispute with the use
of language about this little misapplication, our observation is
only intended to remove wrong objections.

This resolution now, which overcomes the state of doubting,

can only be called forth by the intellect, and, in fact, by a
peculiar tendency of the same. We maintain that the mere
union of a superior understanding and the necessary feelings
are not sufficient to make up resolution. There are persons
who possess the keenest perception for the most difficult
problems, who are also not fearful of responsibility, and yet in
cases of difficulty cannot come to a resolution. Their courage
and their sagacity operate independently of each other, do not
give each other a hand, and on that account do not produce
resolution as a result. The forerunner of resolution is an act of
the mind making evident the necessity of venturing and thus
influencing the will. This quite peculiar direction of the mind,
which conquers every other fear in man by the fear of
wavering or doubting, is what makes up resolution in strong
minds; therefore, in our opinion, men who have little
intelligence can never be resolute. They may act without
hesitation under perplexing circumstances, but then they act
without reflection. Now, of course, when a man acts without
reflection he cannot be at variance with himself by doubts,
and such a mode of action may now and then lead to the right
point; but we say now as before, it is the average result which
indicates the existence of military genius. Should our

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assertion appear extraordinary to anyone, because he knows
many a resolute hussar officer who is no deep thinker, we
must remind him that the question here is about a peculiar
direction of the mind, and not about great thinking powers.

We believe, therefore, that resolution is indebted to a special

direction of the mind for its existence, a direction which
belongs to a strong head rather than to a brilliant one. In
corroboration of this genealogy of resolution we may add that
there have been many instances of men who have shown the
greatest resolution in an inferior rank, and have lost it in a
higher position. While, on the one hand, they are obliged to
resolve, on the other they see the dangers of a wrong decision,
and as they are surrounded with things new to them, their
understanding loses its original force, and they become only
the more timid the more they become aware of the danger of
the irresolution into which they have fallen, and the more they
have formerly been in the habit of acting on the spur of the
moment.

From the coup d’oeil and resolution we are naturally led to

speak of its kindred quality, presence of mind, which in a
region of the unexpected like war must act a great part, for it
is indeed nothing but a great conquest over the unexpected.
As we admire presence of mind in a pithy answer to anything
said unexpectedly, so we admire it in a ready expedient on
sudden danger. Neither the answer nor the expedient need be
in themselves extraordinary, if they only hit the point; for that
which as the result of mature reflection would be nothing
unusual, therefore insignificant in its impression on us, may
as an instantaneous act of the mind produce a pleasing
impression. The expression ‘presence of mind’ certainly

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denotes very fitly the readiness and rapidity of the help
rendered by the mind.

Whether this noble quality of a man is to be ascribed more to

the peculiarity of his mind or to the equanimity of his
feelings, depends on the nature of the case, although neither
of the two can be entirely wanting. A telling repartee
bespeaks rather a ready wit, a ready expedient on sudden
danger implies more particularly a well-balanced mind.

If we take a general view of the four elements composing the

atmosphere in which war moves, of danger, physical effort,
uncertainty, and chance, it is easy to conceive that a great
force of mind and understanding is requisite to be able to
make way with safety and success amongst such opposing
elements, a force which, according to the different
modifications arising out of circumstances, we find termed by
military writers and annalists as energy, firmness,
staunchness, strength of mind and character. All these
manifestations of the heroic nature might be regarded as one
and the same power of volition, modified according to
circumstances; but nearly related as these things are to each
other, still they are not one and the same, and it is desirable
for us to distinguish here a little more closely at least the
action of the powers of the soul in relation to them.

In the first place, to make the conception clear, it is essential

to observe that the weight, burden, resistance, or whatever it
may be called, by which that force of the soul in the general is
brought to light is only in a very small measure the enemy’s
activity, the enemy’s resistance, the enemy’s action directly.
The enemy’s activity only affects the general directly in the
first place in relation to his person, without disturbing his

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action as commander. If the enemy, instead of two hours,
resists for four, the commander instead of two hours is four
hours in danger; this is a quantity which plainly diminishes
the higher the rank of the commander. What is it for one in
the post of commander-in-chief? It is nothing.

Secondly, although the opposition offered by the enemy has a

direct effect on the commander through the loss of means
arising from prolonged resistance, and the responsibility
connected with that loss, and his force of will is first tested
and called forth by these anxious considerations, still we
maintain that this is not the heaviest burden by far which he
has to bear, because he has only himself to settle with. All the
other effects of the enemy’s resistance act directly upon the
combatants under his command, and through them react upon
him.

As long as his men full of good courage fight with zeal and
spirit, it is seldom necessary for the chief to show great
energy of purpose in the pursuit of his object. But as soon as
difficulties arise – and that must always happen when great
results are at stake – then things no longer move on of
themselves like a well-oiled machine, the machine itself then
begins to offer resistance, and to overcome this the
commander must have a great force of will. By this resistance
we must not exactly suppose disobedience and murmurs,
although these are frequent enough with particular
individuals; it is the whole feeling of the dissolution of all
physical and moral power, it is the heart-rending sight of the
bloody sacrifice which the commander has to contend with in
himself, and then in all others who directly or indirectly
transfer to him their impressions, feelings, anxieties, and
desires. As the forces in one individual after another become

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prostrated, and can no longer be excited and supported by an
effort of his own will, the whole inertia of the mass gradually
rests its weight on the will of the commander: by the spark in
his breast, by the light of his spirit, the spark of purpose, the
light of hope, must be kindled afresh in others: in so far only
as he is equal to this, he stands above the masses and
continues to be their master; whenever that influence ceases,
and his own spirit is no longer strong enough to revive the
spirit of all others, the masses drawing him down with them
sink into the lower region of animal nature, which shrinks
from danger and knows not shame. These are the weights
which the courage and intelligent faculties of the military
commander have to overcome if he is to make his name
illustrious. They increase with the masses and therefore, if the
forces in question are to continue equal to the burden, they
must rise in proportion to the height of the station.

Energy in action expresses the strength of the motive through

which the action is excited, let the motive have its origin in a
conviction of the understanding, or in an impulse. But the
latter can hardly ever be wanting where great force is to show
itself.

Of all the noble feelings which fill the human heart in the
exciting tumult of battle, none, we must admit, are so
powerful and constant as the soul’s thirst for honour and
renown, which the German language treats so unfairly and
tends to depreciate by the unworthy associations in the words
Ehrgeiz (greed of honour) and Ruhmsucht (hankering after
glory). No doubt it is just in war that the abuse of these proud
aspirations of the soul must bring upon the human race the
most shocking outrages, but by their origin they are certainly
to be counted amongst the noblest feelings which belong to

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human nature, and in war they are the vivifying principle
which gives the enormous body a spirit. Although other
feelings may be more general in their influence, and many of
them – such as love of country, fanaticism, revenge,
enthusiasm of every kind – may seem to stand higher, the
thirst for honour and renown still remains indispensable.
Those other feelings may rouse the great masses in general
and excite them more powerfully, but they do not give the
leader a desire to will more than others, which is an essential
requisite in his position if he is to make himself distinguished
in it. They do not, like a thirst for honour, make the military
act specially the property of the leader, which he strives to
turn to the best account; where he ploughs with toil, sows
with care, that he may reap plentifully. It is through these
aspirations we have been speaking of in commanders, from
the highest to the lowest, this sort of energy, this spirit of
emulation, these incentives, that the action of armies is
chiefly animated and made successful. And now as to that
which specially concerns the head of all, we ask, Has there
ever been a great commander destitute of the love of honour,
or is such a character even conceivable?

Firmness denotes the resistance of the will in relation to the

force of a single blow, staunchness in relation to a
continuance of blows. Close as is the analogy between the
two, and often as the one is used in place of the other, still
there is a notable difference between them which cannot be
mistaken, inasmuch as firmness against a single powerful
impression may have its root in the mere strength of a feeling,
but staunchness must be supported rather by the
understanding, for the greater the duration of an action the
more systematic deliberation is connected with it, and from
this staunchness partly derives its power.

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If we now turn to strength of mind or soul, then the first
question is, What are we to understand thereby?

Plainly it is not vehement expressions of feeling, nor easily

excited passions, for that would be contrary to all the usage of
language, but the power of listening to reason in the midst of
the most intense excitement, in the storm of the most violent
passions. Should this power depend on strength of
understanding alone? We doubt it. The fact that there are men
of the greatest intellect who cannot command themselves
certainly proves nothing to the contrary, for we might say that
it perhaps requires an understanding of a powerful rather than
of a comprehensive nature; but we believe we shall be nearer
the truth if we assume that the power of submitting oneself to
the control of the understanding, even in moments of the most
violent excitement of the feelings, that power which we call
self-command, has its root in the heart itself. It is, in point of
fact, another feeling, which in strong minds balances the
excited passions without destroying them; and it is only
through this equilibrium that the mastery of the understanding
is secured. This counterpoise is nothing but a sense of the
dignity of man, that noblest pride, that deeply-seated desire of
the soul always to act as a being endued with understanding
and reason. We may therefore say that a strong mind is one
which does not lose its balance even under the most violent
excitement.

If we cast a glance at the variety to be observed in the human

character in respect to feeling, we find, first, some people
who have very little excitability, who are called phlegmatic or
indolent.

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Secondly, some very excitable, but whose feelings still never
overstep certain limits, and who are therefore known as men
full of feeling, but sober-minded.

Thirdly, those who are very easily roused, whose feelings

blaze up quickly and violently like gunpowder, but do not
last.

Fourthly, and lastly, those who cannot be moved by slight

causes, and who generally are not to be roused suddenly, but
only gradually; but whose feelings become very powerful and
are much more lasting. These are men with strong passions,
lying deep and latent.

This difference of character lies probably close on the

confines of the physical powers which move the human
organism, and belongs to that amphibious organisation which
we call the nervous system, which appears to be partly
material, partly spiritual. With our weak philosophy, we shall
not proceed further in this mysterious field. But it is important
for us to spend a moment over the effects which these
different natures have on action in war, and to see how far a
great strength of mind is to be expected from them.

Indolent men cannot easily be thrown out of their equanimity,

but we cannot certainly say there is strength of mind where
there is a want of all manifestation of power.

At the same time, it is not to be denied that such men have a

certain peculiar aptitude for war, on account of their constant
equanimity. They often want the positive motive to action,
impulse, and consequently activity, but they are not apt to
throw things into disorder.

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The peculiarity of the second class is that they are easily
excited to act on trifling grounds, but in great matters they are
easily overwhelmed. Men of this kind show great activity in
helping an unfortunate individual, but by the distress of a
whole nation they are only inclined to despond, not roused to
action.

Such people are not deficient in either activity or equanimity

in war; but they will never accomplish anything great unless a
great intellectual force furnishes the motive, and it is very
seldom that a strong, independent mind is combined with
such a character.

Excitable, inflammable feelings are in themselves little suited

for practical life, and therefore they are not very fit for war.
They have certainly the advantage of strong impulses, but that
cannot long sustain them. At the same time, if the excitability
in such men takes the direction of courage, or a sense of
honour, they may often be very useful in inferior positions in
war, because the action in war over which commanders in
inferior positions have control is generally of shorter duration.
Here one courageous resolution, one effervescence of the
forces of the soul, will often suffice. A brave attack, a
soul-stirring hurrah, is the work of a few moments, whilst a
brave contest on the battlefield is the work of a day, and a
campaign the work of a year.

Owing to the rapid movement of their feelings, it is doubly

difficult for men of this description to preserve equilibrium of
the mind; therefore they frequently lose head, and that is the
worst phase in their nature as respects the conduct of war. But
it would be contrary to experience to maintain that very
excitable spirits can never preserve a steady equilibrium –

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that is to say, that they cannot do so even under the strongest
excitement. Why should they not have the sentiment of
self-respect, for, as a rule, they are men of a noble nature?
This feeling is seldom wanting in them, but it has not time to
produce an effect. After an outburst they suffer most from a
feeling of inward humiliation. If through education,
self-observance, and experience of life, they have learned,
sooner or later, the means of being on their guard, so that at
the moment of powerful excitement they are conscious
betimes of the counteracting force within their own breasts,
then even such men may have great strength of mind.

Lastly, those who are difficult to move, but on that account

susceptible of very deep feelings, men who stand in the same
relation to the preceding as red heat to a flame, are the best
adapted by means of their titanic strength to roll away the
enormous masses by which we may figuratively represent the
difficulties which beset command in war. The effect of their
feelings is like the movement of a great body, slower, but
more irresistible.

Although such men are not so likely to be suddenly surprised

by their feelings and carried away so as to be afterwards
ashamed of themselves, like the preceding, still it would be
contrary to experience to believe that they can never lose their
equanimity, or be overcome by blind passion; on the contrary,
this must always happen whenever the noble pride of
self-control is wanting, or as often as it has not sufficient
weight. We see examples of this most frequently in men of
noble minds belonging to savage nations, where the low
degree of mental cultivation favours always the dominance of
the passions. But even amongst the most civilised classes in
civilised states, life is full of examples of this kind – of men

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carried away by the violence of their passions, like the
poacher of old chained to the stag in the forest.

We therefore say once more a strong mind is not one that is

merely susceptible of strong excitement, but one which can
maintain its serenity under the most powerful excitement, so
that, in spite of the storm in the breast, the perception and
judgement can act with perfect freedom, like the needle of the
compass in the storm-tossed ship.

By the term strength of character, or simply character, is

denoted tenacity of conviction, let it be the result of our own
or of others’ views, and whether they are principles, opinions,
momentary inspirations, or any kind of emanations of the
understanding; but this kind of firmness certainly cannot
manifest itself if the views themselves are subject to frequent
change. This frequent change need not be the consequence of
external influences; it may proceed from the continuous
activity of our own mind, in which case it indicates a
characteristic unsteadiness of mind. Evidently we should not
say of a man who changes his views every moment, however
much the motives of change may originate with himself, that
he has character. Only those men, therefore, can be said to
have this quality whose conviction is very constant, either
because it is deeply rooted and clear in itself, little liable to
alteration, or because, as in the case of indolent men, there is
a want of mental activity, and therefore a want of motives to
change; or lastly, because an explicit act of the will, derived
from an imperative maxim of the understanding, refuses any
change of opinion up to a certain point.

Now in war, owing to the many and powerful impressions to

which the mind is exposed, and in the uncertainty of all

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knowledge and of all science, more things occur to distract a
man from the road he has entered upon, to make him doubt
himself and others, than in any other human activity.

The harrowing sight of danger and suffering easily leads to

the feelings gaining ascendancy over the conviction of the
understanding; and in the twilight which surrounds everything
a deep clear view is so difficult that a change of opinion is
more conceivable and more pardonable. It is, at all times,
only conjecture or guesses at truth which we have to act upon.
This is why differences of opinion are nowhere so great as in
war, and the stream of impressions acting counter to one’s
own convictions never ceases to flow. Even the greatest
impassibility of mind is hardly proof against them, because
the impressions are powerful in their nature, and always act at
the same time upon the feelings.

When the discernment is clear and deep, none but general

principles and views of action from a high standpoint can be
the result; and on these principles the opinion in each
particular case immediately under consideration lies, as it
were, at anchor. But to keep to these results of bygone
reflection, in opposition to the stream of opinions and
phenomena which the present brings with it, is just the
difficulty. Between the particular case and the principle there
is often a wide space which cannot always be traversed on a
visible chain of conclusions, and where a certain faith in self
is necessary and a certain amount of scepticism is serviceable.
Here often nothing else will help us but an imperative maxim
which, independent of reflection, at once controls it: that
maxim is, in all doubtful cases to adhere to the first opinion,
and not to give it up until a clear conviction forces us to do
so. We must firmly believe in the superior authority of

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well-tried maxims, and under the dazzling influence of
momentary events not forget that their value is of an inferior
stamp. By this preference which in doubtful cases we give to
first convictions, by adherence to the same our actions acquire
that stability and consistency which make up what is called
character.

It is easy to see how essential a well-balanced mind is to

strength of character; therefore men of strong minds generally
have a great deal of character.

Force of character leads us to a spurious variety of it –

obstinacy.

It is often very difficult in concrete cases to say where the one

ends and the other begins; on the other hand, it does not seem
difficult to determine the difference in idea.

Obstinacy is no fault of the understanding; we use the term as

denoting a resistance against our better judgement, and it
would be inconsistent to charge that to the understanding, as
the understanding is the power of judgement. Obstinacy is a
fault of the feelings or heart. This inflexibility of will, this
impatience of contradiction, have their origin only in a
particular kind of egotism, which sets above every other
pleasure that of governing both self and others by its own
mind alone. We should call it a kind of vanity, were it not
decidedly something better. Vanity is satisfied with mere
show, but obstinacy rests upon the enjoyment of the thing.

We say, therefore, force of character degenerates into

obstinacy whenever the resistance to opposing judgements
proceeds not from better convictions or a reliance upon a

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more trustworthy maxim, but from a feeling of opposition. If
this definition, as we have already admitted, is of little
assistance practically, still it will prevent obstinacy from
being considered merely force of character intensified, whilst
it is something essentially different – something which
certainly lies close to it and is cognate to it, but is at the same
time so little an intensification of it that there are very
obstinate men who from want of understanding have very
little force of character.

Having in these high attributes of a great military commander

made ourselves acquainted with those qualities in which heart
and head co-operate, we now come to a speciality of military
activity which perhaps may be looked upon as the most
marked if it is not the most important, and which only makes
a demand on the power of the mind without regard to the
forces of feelings. It is the connection which exists between
war and country or ground.

This connection is, in the first place, a permanent condition of

war, for it is impossible to imagine our organised armies
effecting any operation otherwise than in some given space; it
is, secondly, of the most decisive importance, because it
modifies, at times completely alters, the action of all forces;
thirdly, while on the one hand it often concerns the most
minute features of locality, on the other it may apply to
immense tracts of country.

In this manner a great peculiarity is given to the effect of this

connection of war with country and ground. If we think of
other occupations of man which have a relation to these
objects, on horticulture, agriculture, on building houses and
hydraulic works, on mining, on the chase, and forestry, they

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are all confined within very limited spaces which may be
soon explored with sufficient exactness. But the commander
in war must commit the business he has in hand to a
corresponding space which his eye cannot survey, which the
keenest zeal cannot always explore, and with which, owing to
the constant changes taking place, he can also seldom become
properly acquainted. Certainly the enemy generally is in the
same situation; still, in the first place, the difficulty, although
common to both, is not the less a difficulty, and he who by
talent and practice overcomes it will have a great advantage
on his side; secondly, this equality of the difficulty on both
sides is merely an abstract supposition which is rarely realised
in the particular case, as one of the two opponents (the
defensive) usually knows much more of the locality than his
adversary.

This very peculiar difficulty must be overcome by a natural

mental gift of a special kind which is known by the – too
restricted – term of (Ortsinn) sense of locality. It is the power
of quickly forming a correct geometrical idea of any portion
of country, and consequently of being able to find one’s place
in it exactly at any time. This is plainly an act of the
imagination. The perception no doubt is formed partly by
means of the physical eye, partly by the mind, which fills up
what is wanting with ideas derived from knowledge and
experience, and out of the fragments visible to the physical
eye forms a whole; but that this whole should present itself
vividly to the reason, should become a picture, a mentally
drawn map, that this picture should be fixed, that the details
should never again separate themselves – all that can only be
effected by the mental faculty which we call imagination. If
some great poet or painter should feel hurt that we require
from his goddess such an office; if he shrugs his shoulders at

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the notion that a sharp gamekeeper must necessarily excel in
imagination, we readily grant that we only speak here of
imagination in a limited sense, of its service in a really menial
capacity. But, however slight this service, still it must be the
work of that natural gift, for if that gift is wanting, it would be
difficult to imagine things plainly in all the completeness of
the visible. That a good memory is a great assistance we
freely allow, but whether memory is to be considered as an
independent faculty of the mind in this case, or whether it is
just that power of imagination which here fixes these things
better on the memory, we leave undecided, as in many
respects it seems difficult upon the whole to conceive these
two mental powers apart from each other.

That practice and mental acuteness have much to do with it is

not to be denied. Puysegur, the celebrated
Quartermaster-General of the famous Luxemburg, used to say
that he had very little confidence in himself in this respect at
first, because if he had to fetch the parole from a distance he
always lost his way.

It is natural that scope for the exercise of this talent should

increase along with rank. If the hussar and rifleman in
command of a patrol must know well all the highways and
byways, and if for that a few marks, a few limited powers of
observation, are sufficient, the chief of an army must make
himself familiar with the general geographical features of a
province and of a country; must always have vividly before
his eyes the direction of the roads, rivers, and hills, without at
the same time being able to dispense with the narrower ‘sense
of locality’ (Ortsinn). No doubt, information of various kinds
as to objects in general, maps, books, memoirs, and for details
the assistance of his staff, are a great help to him; but it is

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nevertheless certain that if he has himself a talent for forming
an ideal picture of a country quickly and distinctively, it lends
to his action an easier and firmer step, saves him from a
certain mental helplessness, and makes him less dependent on
others.

If this talent then is to be ascribed to imagination, it is also

almost the only service which military activity requires from
that erratic goddess, whose influence is more hurtful than
useful in other respects.

We think we have now passed in review those manifestations

of the powers of mind and soul which military activity
requires from human nature. Everywhere intellect appears as
an essential co-operative force; and thus we can understand
how the work of war, although so plain and simple in its
effects, can never be conducted with distinguished success by
people without distinguished powers of the understanding.

When we have reached this view, then we need no longer

look upon such a natural idea as the turning an enemy’s
position, which has been done a thousand times, and a
hundred other similar conceptions, as the result of a great
effort of genius.

Certainly one is accustomed to regard the plain honest soldier

as the very opposite of the man of reflection, full of
inventions and ideas, or of the brilliant spirit shining in the
ornaments of refined education of every kind. This antithesis
is also by no means devoid of truth; but it does not show that
the efficiency of the soldier consists only in his courage, and
that there is no particular energy and capacity of the brain
required in addition to make a man merely what is called a

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true soldier. We must again repeat that there is nothing more
common than to hear of men losing their energy on being
raised to a higher position, to which they do not feel
themselves equal; but we must also remind our readers that
we are speaking of pre-eminent services, of such as give
renown in the branch of activity to which they belong. Each
grade of command in war therefore forms its own stratum of
requisite capacity of fame and honour.

An immense space lies between a general – that is, one at the

head of a whole war, or of a theatre of war – and his
second-in-command, for the simple reason that the latter is in
more immediate subordination to a superior authority and
supervision, consequently is restricted to a more limited
sphere of independent thought. This is why common opinion
sees no room for the exercise of high talent except in high
places, and looks upon an ordinary capacity as sufficient for
all beneath: this is why people are rather inclined to look
upon a subordinate general grown grey in the service, and in
whom constant discharge of routine duties has produced a
decided poverty of mind, as a man of failing intellect, and,
with all respect for his bravery, to laugh at his simplicity. It is
not our object to gain for these brave men a better lot – that
would contribute nothing to their efficiency, and little to their
happiness; we only wish to represent things as they are, and to
expose the error of believing that a mere bravo without
intellect can make himself distinguished in war.

As we consider distinguished talents requisite for those who

are to attain distinction, even in inferior positions, it naturally
follows that we think highly of those who fill with renown the
place of second-in-command of an army; and their seeming
simplicity of character as compared with a polyhistor, with

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ready men of business, or with councillors of state, must not
lead us astray as to the superior nature of their intellectual
activity. It happens sometimes that men import the fame
gained in an inferior position into a higher one, without in
reality deserving it in the new position; and then if they are
not much employed, and therefore not much exposed to the
risk of showing their weak points, the judgement does not
distinguish very exactly what degree of fame is really due to
them; and thus such men are often the occasion of too low an
estimate being formed of the characteristics required to shine
in certain situations.

For each station, from the lowest upwards, to render

distinguished services in war, there must be a particular
genius. But the title of genius, history and the judgement of
posterity only confer, in general, on those minds which have
shone in the highest rank, that of commander-in-chief. The
reason is that here, in point of fact, the demand on the
reasoning and intellectual powers generally is much greater.

To conduct a whole war, or its great acts, which we call

campaigns, to a successful termination, there must be an
intimate knowledge of state policy in its higher relations. The
conduct of the war and the policy of the state here coincide,
and the general becomes at the same time the statesman.

We do not give Charles XII the name of a great genius,

because he could not make the power of his sword
subservient to a higher judgement and philosophy – could not
attain by it to a glorious object. We do not give that title to
Henry IV (of France) because he did not live long enough to
set at rest the relations of different states by his military
activity, and to occupy himself in that higher field where

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noble feelings and a chivalrous disposition have less to do in
mastering the enemy than in overcoming internal dissension.

In order that the reader may appreciate all that must be

comprehended and judged of correctly at a glance by a
general, we refer to the first chapter. We say the general
becomes a statesman, but he must not cease to be the general.
He takes into view all the relations of the state on the one
hand; on the other, he must know exactly what he can do with
the means at his disposal.

As the diversity, and undefined limits, of all the

circumstances bring a great number of factors into
consideration in war, as the most of these factors can only be
estimated according to probability, therefore, if the chief of an
army does not bring to bear upon them a mind with an
intuitive perception of the truth, a confusion of ideas and
views must take place, in the midst of which the judgement
will become bewildered. In this sense, Bonaparte was right
when he said that many of the questions which come before a
general for decision would make problems for a mathematical
calculation not unworthy of the powers of Newton or Euler.

What is here required from the higher powers of the mind is a

sense of unity, and a judgement raised to such a compass as to
give the mind an extraordinary faculty of vision which in its
range allays and sets aside a thousand dim notions which an
ordinary understanding could only bring to light with great
effort, and over which it would exhaust itself. But this higher
activity of the mind, this glance of genius, would still not
become matter of history if the qualities of temperament and
character of which we have treated did not give it their
support.

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Truth alone is but a weak motive of action with men, and
hence there is always a great difference between knowing and
action, between science and art. The man receives the
strongest impulse to action through the feelings, and the most
powerful succour, if we may use the expression, through
those faculties of heart and mind which we have considered
under the terms of resolution, firmness, perseverance, and
force of character.

If, however, this elevated condition of heart and mind in the

general did not manifest itself in the general effects resulting
from it, and could only be accepted on trust and faith, then it
would rarely become matter of history.

All that becomes known of the course of events in war is

usually very simple, and has a great sameness in appearance;
no one on the mere relation of such events perceives the
difficulties connected with them which had to be overcome. It
is only now and again, in the memoirs of generals or of those
in their confidence, or by reason of some special historical
inquiry directed to a particular circumstance, that a portion of
the many threads composing the whole web is brought to
light. The reflections, mental doubts, and conflicts which
precede the execution of great acts are purposely concealed
because they affect political interests, or the recollection of
them is accidentally lost because they have been looked upon
as mere scaffolding which had to be removed on the
completion of the building.

If, now, in conclusion, without venturing upon a closer

definition of the higher powers of the soul, we should admit a
distinction in the intelligent faculties themselves according to
the common ideas established by language, and ask ourselves

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what kind of mind comes closest to military genius, then a
look at the subject as well as at experience will tell us that
searching rather than inventive minds, comprehensive minds
rather than such as have a special bent, cool rather than fiery
heads, are those to which in time of war we should prefer to
trust the welfare of our women and children, the honour and
the safety of our fatherland.

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Chapter iv

Of Danger in War

Usually before we have learnt what danger really is, we form

an idea of it which is rather attractive than repulsive. In the
intoxication of enthusiasm, to fall upon the enemy at the
charge – who cares then about bullets and men falling? To
throw oneself, blinded by excitement for a moment, against
cold death, uncertain whether we or another shall escape him,
and all this close to the golden gate of victory, close to the
rich fruit which ambition thirsts for – can this be difficult? It
will not be difficult, and still less will it appear so. But such
moments which, however, are not the work of a single
pulse-beat, as is supposed, but rather like doctors’ draughts,
must be taken diluted and spoilt by mixture with time – such
moments, we say, are but few.

Let us accompany the novice to the battlefield. As we

approach, the thunder of the cannon becoming plainer and
plainer is soon followed by the howling of shot, which
attracts the attention of the inexperienced. Balls begin to
strike the ground close to us, before and behind. We hasten to
the hill where stands the general and his numerous staff. Here
the close striking of the cannon balls and the bursting of
shells is so frequent that the seriousness of life makes itself
visible through the youthful picture of imagination. Suddenly
some one known to us falls – a shell strikes amongst the
crowd and causes some involuntary movements: we begin to
feel that we are no longer perfectly at ease and collected; even
the bravest is at least to some degree confused. Now, a step
farther into the battle which is raging before us like a scene in

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a theatre, we get to the nearest general of division; here ball
follows ball, and the noise of our own guns increases the
confusion. From the general of division to the brigadier. He, a
man of acknowledged bravery, keeps carefully behind a rising
ground, a house, or a tree – a sure sign of increasing danger.
Grape rattles on the roofs of the houses and in the fields;
cannon balls howl over us, and plough the air in all directions,
and soon there is a frequent whistling of musket balls. A step
farther towards the troops, to that sturdy infantry which for
hours has maintained its firmness under this heavy fire; here
the air is filled with the hissing of balls which announce their
proximity by a short sharp noise as they pass within an inch
of the ear, the head, or the breast.

To add to all this, compassion strikes the beating heart with

pity at the sight of the maimed and fallen. The young soldier
cannot reach any of these different strata of danger without
feeling that the light of reason does not move here in the same
medium, that it is not refracted in the same manner as in
speculative contemplation. Indeed, he must be a very
extraordinary man who, under these impressions for the first
time, does not lose the power of making any instantaneous
decisions. It is true that habit soon blunts such impressions; in
half an hour we begin to be more or less indifferent to all that
is going on around us: but an ordinary character never attains
to complete coolness and the natural elasticity of mind; and so
we perceive that here again ordinary qualities will not suffice
– a thing which gains truth, the wider the sphere of activity
which is to be filled. Enthusiastic, stoical, natural bravery,
great ambition, or also long familiarity with danger – much of
all this there must be if all the effects produced in this
resistant medium are not to fall far short of that which in the
student’s chamber may appear only the ordinary standard.

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Danger in war belongs to its friction; a correct idea of its
influence is necessary for truth of perception, and therefore it
is brought under notice here.

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Chapter v

Of Bodily Exertion in War

If no one were allowed to pass an opinion on the events of

war, except at a moment when he is benumbed by frost,
sinking from heat and thirst, or dying with hunger and fatigue,
we should certainly have fewer judgements correct
objectively; but they would be so, subjectively, at least; that
is, they would contain in themselves the exact relation
between the person giving the judgement and the object. We
can perceive this by observing how modestly subdued, even
spiritless and desponding, is the opinion passed upon the
results of untoward events by those who have been
eye-witnesses, but especially if they have been parties
concerned. This is, according to our view, a criterion of the
influence which bodily fatigue exercises, and of the
allowance to be made for it in matters of opinion.

Amongst the many things in war for which no tariff can be

fixed, bodily effort may be specially reckoned. Provided there
is no waste, it is a coefficient of all the forces, and no one can
tell exactly to what extent it may be carried. But what is
remarkable is, that just as only a strong arm enables the archer
to stretch the bowstring to the utmost extent, so also in war it
is only by means of a great directing spirit that we can expect
the full power latent in the troops to be developed. For it is
one thing if an army, in consequence of great misfortunes,
surrounded with danger, falls all to pieces like a wall that has
been thrown down, and can only find safety in the utmost
exertion of its bodily strength; it is another thing entirely
when a victorious army, drawn on by proud feelings only, is

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conducted at the will of its chief. The same effort which in the
one case might at most excite our pity must in the other call
forth our admiration, because it is much more difficult to
sustain.

By this comes to light for the inexperienced eye one of those

things which put fetters in the dark, as it were, on the action
of the mind, and wear out in secret the powers of the soul.

Although here the question is strictly only respecting the

extreme effort required by a commander from his army, by a
leader from his followers, therefore of the spirit to demand it
and of the art of getting it, still the personal physical exertion
of generals and of the chief commanders must not be
overlooked. Having brought the analysis of war
conscientiously up to this point, we could not but take
account also of the weight of this small remaining residue.

We have spoken here of bodily effort, chiefly because, like

danger, it belongs to the fundamental causes of friction, and
because its indefinite quantity makes it like an elastic body,
the friction of which is well known to be difficult to calculate.

To check the abuse of these considerations, of such a survey

of things which aggravate the difficulties of war, nature has
given our judgement a guide in our sensibilities. Just as an
individual cannot with advantage refer to his personal
deficiencies if he is insulted and ill-treated, but may well do
so if he has successfully repelled the affront, or has fully
revenged it, so no commander or army will lessen the
impression of a disgraceful defeat by depicting the danger, the
distress, the exertions, things which would immensely
enhance the glory of a victory. Thus our feeling, which after

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all is only a higher kind of judgement, forbids us to do what
seems an act of justice to which our judgement would be
inclined.

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Chapter vi

Information in War

By the word ‘information’ we denote all the knowledge

which we have of the enemy and his country; therefore, in
fact, the foundation of all our ideas and actions. Let us just
consider the nature of this foundation, its want of
trustworthiness, its changefulness, and we shall soon feel
what a dangerous edifice war is, how easily it may fall to
pieces and bury us in its ruins. For although it is a maxim in
all books that we should trust only certain information, that
we must be always suspicious, that is only a miserable book
comfort, belonging to that description of knowledge in which
writers of systems and compendiums take refuge for want of
anything better to say.

Great part of the information obtained in war is contradictory,

a still greater part is false, and by far the greatest part is of a
doubtful character. What is required of an officer is a certain
power of discrimination, which only knowledge of men and
things and good judgement can give. The law of probability
must be his guide. This is not a trifling difficulty even in
respect of the first plans, which can be formed in the chamber
outside the real sphere of war, but it is enormously increased
when in the thick of war itself one report follows hard upon
the heels of another; it is then fortunate if these reports in
contradicting each other show a certain balance of
probability, and thus themselves call forth a scrutiny. It is
much worse for the inexperienced when accident does not
render him this service, but one report supports another,
confirms it, magnifies it, finishes off the picture with fresh

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touches of colour, until necessity in urgent haste forces from
us a resolution which will soon be discovered to be folly, all
those reports having been lies, exaggerations, errors, etc., etc.
In a few words, most reports are false, and the timidity of men
acts as a multiplier of lies and untruths. As a general rule,
everyone is more inclined to lend credence to the bad than the
good. Everyone is inclined to magnify the bad in some
measure, and although the alarms which are thus propagated
like the waves of the sea subside into themselves, still, like
them, without any apparent cause they rise again. Firm in
reliance on his own better convictions, the chief must stand
like a rock against which the sea breaks its fury in vain. The
role is not easy; he who is not by nature of a buoyant
disposition, or trained by experience in war, and matured in
judgement, may let it be his rule to do violence to his own
natural conviction by inclining from the side of fear to that of
hope; only by that means will he be able to preserve his
balance. This difficulty of seeing things correctly, which is
one of the greatest sources of friction in war, makes things
appear quite different from what was expected. The
impression of the senses is stronger than the force of the ideas
resulting from methodical reflection, and this goes so far that
no important undertaking was ever yet carried out without the
commander having to subdue new doubts in himself at the
time of commencing the execution of his work. Ordinary men
who follow the suggestions of others become, therefore,
generally undecided on the spot; they think that they have
found circumstances different from what they had expected,
and this view gains strength by their again yielding to the
suggestions of others. But even the man who has made his
own plans, when he comes to see things with his own eyes
will often think he has done wrong. Firm reliance on self must
make him proof against the seeming pressure of the moment;

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his first conviction will in the end prove true, when the
foreground scenery which fate has pushed on to the stage of
war, with its accompaniments of terrific objects, is drawn
aside and the horizon extended. This is one of the great
chasms which separate conception from execution.

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Chapter vii

Friction in War

As long as we have no personal knowledge of war, we cannot

conceive where these difficulties lie of which so much is said,
and what that genius and those extraordinary mental powers
required in a general have really to do. All appears so simple,
all the requisite branches of knowledge appear so plain, all
the combinations so unimportant, that in comparison with
them the easiest problem in higher mathematics impresses us
with a certain scientific dignity. But if we have seen war, all
becomes intelligible; and still, after all, it is extremely
difficult to describe what it is which brings about this change,
to specify this invisible and completely efficient factor.

Everything is very simple in war, but the simplest thing is

difficult. These difficulties accumulate and produce a friction
which no man can imagine exactly who has not seen war.
Suppose now a traveller, who towards evening expects to
accomplish the two stages at the end of his day’s journey,
four or five leagues, with post-horses, on the high road – it is
nothing. He arrives now at the last station but one, finds no
horses, or very bad ones; then a hilly country, bad roads; it is
a dark night, and he is glad when, after a great deal of trouble,
he reaches the next station, and finds there some miserable
accommodation. So in war, through the influence of an
infinity of petty circumstances, which cannot properly be
described on paper, things disappoint us, and we fall short of
the mark. A powerful iron will overcomes this friction; it
crushes the obstacles, but certainly the machine along with
them. We shall often meet with this result. Like an obelisk

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towards which the principal streets of a town converge, the
strong will of a proud spirit stands prominent and
commanding in the middle of the art of war.

Friction is the only conception which in a general way

corresponds to that which distinguishes real war from war on
paper. The military machine, the army and all belonging to it,
is in fact simple, and appears on this account easy to manage.
But let us reflect that no part of it is in one piece, that it is
composed entirely of individuals, each of which keeps up its
own friction in all directions. Theoretically all sounds very
well: the commander of a battalion is responsible for the
execution of the order given; and as the battalion by its
discipline is glued together into one piece, and the chief must
be a man of acknowledged zeal, the beam turns on an iron pin
with little friction. But it is not so in reality, and all that is
exaggerated and false in such a conception manifests itself at
once in war. The battalion always remains composed of a
number of men, of whom, if chance so wills, the most
insignificant is able to occasion delay and even irregularity.
The danger which war brings with it, the bodily exertions
which it requires, augment this evil so much that they may be
regarded as the greatest causes of it.

This enormous friction, which is not concentrated, as in

mechanics, at a few points, is therefore everywhere brought
into contact with chance, and thus incidents take place upon
which it was impossible to calculate, their chief origin being
chance. As an instance of one such chance take the weather.
Here the fog prevents the enemy from being discovered in
time, a battery from firing at the right moment, a report from
reaching the general; there the rain prevents a battalion from
arriving at the right time, because instead of for three it had to

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march perhaps eight hours; the cavalry from charging
effectively because it is stuck fast in heavy ground.

These are only a few incidents of detail by way of elucidation,

that the reader may be able to follow the author, for whole
volumes might be written on these difficulties. To avoid this
and still to give a clear conception of the host of small
difficulties to be contended with in war, we might go on
heaping up illustrations, if we were not afraid of being
tiresome. But those who have already comprehended us will
permit us to add a few more

Activity in war is movement in a resistant medium. Just as a

man immersed in water is unable to perform with ease and
regularity the most natural and simplest movement, that of
walking, so in war, with ordinary powers, one cannot keep
even the line of mediocrity. This is the reason that the correct
theorist is like a swimming master, who teaches on dry land
movements which are required in the water, which must
appear grotesque and ludicrous to those who forget about the
water. This is also why theorists, who have never plunged in
themselves, or who cannot deduce any generalities from their
experience, are unpractical and even absurd, because they
only teach what everyone knows – how to walk.

Further, every war is rich in particular facts, while at the same

time each is an unexplored sea, full of rocks which the
general may have a suspicion of, but which he has never seen
with his eye, and round which, moreover, he must steer in the
night. If a contrary wind also springs up, that is, if any great
accidental event declares itself adverse to him, then the most
consummate skill, presence of mind, and energy are required,
whilst to those who only look on from a distance all seems to

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proceed with the utmost ease. The knowledge of this friction
is a chief part of that so often talked of, experience in war,
which is required in a good general. Certainly he is not the
best general in whose mind it assumes the greatest
dimensions, who is the most overawed by it (this includes that
class of overanxious generals, of whom there are so many
amongst the experienced); but a general must be aware of it
that he may overcome it, where that is possible, and that he
may not expect a degree of precision in results which is
impossible on account of this very friction. Besides, it can
never be learnt theoretically; and if it could, there would still
be wanting that experience of judgement which is called tact,
and which is always more necessary in a field full of
innumerable small and diversified objects than in great and
decisive cases, when one’s own judgement may be aided by
consultation with others. Just as the man of the world, through
tact of judgement which has become habit, speaks, acts, and
moves only as suits the occasion, so the officer experienced in
war will always, in great and small matters, at every pulsation
of war as we may say, decide and determine suitably to the
occasion. Through this experience and practice the idea
comes to his mind of itself that so and so will not suit. And
thus he will not easily place himself in a position by which he
is compromised, which, if it often occurs in war, shakes all
the foundations of confidence and becomes extremely
dangerous.

It is therefore this friction, or what is so termed here, which

makes that which appears easy in war difficult in reality. As
we proceed, we shall often meet with this subject again, and it
will hereafter become plain that besides experience and a
strong will there are still many other rare qualities of the mind
required to make a man a consummate general.

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Chapter viii

Concluding Remarks

Those things which as elements meet together in the

atmosphere of war and make it a resistant medium for every
activity we have designated under the terms danger, bodily
effort (exertion), information, and friction. In their
impediment effects they may therefore be comprehended
again in the collective notion of a general friction. Now is
there, then, no kind of oil which is capable of diminishing this
friction? Only one, and that one is not always available at the
will of the commander or his army. It is the habituation of an
army to war.

Habit gives strength to the body in great exertion, to the mind

in great danger, to the judgement against first impressions. By
it a valuable circumspection is generally gained throughout
every rank, from the hussar and rifleman up to the general of
division, which facilitates the work of the chief commander.

As the human eye in a dark room dilates its pupil, draws in

the little light that there is, partially distinguishes objects by
degrees, and at last knows them quite well, so it is in war with
the experienced soldier, whilst the novice is only met by pitch
dark night.

Habituation to war no general can give his army at once, and

the camps of manoeuvre (peace exercises) furnish but a weak
substitute for it, weak in comparison with real experience in
war, but not weak in relation to other armies in which the
training is limited to mere mechanical exercises of routine. So

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to regulate the exercises in peace time as to include some of
these causes of friction, that the judgement, circumspection,
even resolution of the separate leaders may be brought into
exercise, is of much greater consequence than those believe
who do not know the thing by experience. It is of immense
importance that the soldier, high or low, whatever rank he
has, should not have to encounter in war those things which,
when seen for the first time, set him in astonishment and
perplexity; if he has only met with them one single time
before, even by that he is half acquainted with them. This
relates even to bodily fatigues. They should be practised less
to accustom the body to them than the mind. In war the young
soldier is very apt to regard unusual fatigues as the
consequence of faults, mistakes, and embarrassment in the
conduct of the whole, and to become distressed and
despondent as a consequence. This would not happen if he
had been prepared for this beforehand by exercises in peace.

Another less comprehensive but still very important means of

gaining habituation to war in time of peace is to invite into the
service officers of foreign armies who have had experience in
war. Peace seldom reigns over all Europe, and never in all
quarters of the world. A state which has been long at peace
should, therefore, always seek to procure some officers who
have done good service at the different scenes of warfare, or
to send there some of its own, that they may get a lesson in
war.

However small the number of officers of this description may

appear in proportion to the mass, still their influence is very
sensibly felt. Their experience, the bent of their genius, the
stamp of their character, influence their subordinates and
comrades; and besides that, if they cannot be placed in

126
positions of superior command, they may always be regarded
as men acquainted with the country, who may be questioned
on many special occasions.

127
Book II

On the Theory of War

128
Chapter i

Branches of the Art of War

War in its literal meaning is fighting, for fighting alone is the

efficient principle in the manifold activity which in a wide
sense is called war. But fighting is a trial of strength of the
moral and physical forces by means of the latter. That the
moral cannot be omitted is evident of itself, for the condition
of the mind has always the most decisive influence on the
forces employed in war.

The necessity of fighting very soon led men to special

inventions to turn the advantage in it in their own favour: in
consequence of these the mode of fighting has undergone
great alterations; but in whatever way it is conducted its
conception remains unaltered, and fighting is that which
constitutes war.

The inventions have been from the first weapons and

equipments for the individual combatants. These have to be
provided and the use of them learnt before the war begins.
They are made suitable to the nature of the fighting,
consequently are ruled by it; but plainly the activity engaged
in these appliances is a different thing from the fight itself; it
is only the preparation for the combat, not the conduct of the
same. That arming and equipping are not essential to the
conception of fighting is plain, because mere wrestling is also
fighting.

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Fighting has determined everything appertaining to arms and
equipment, and these in turn modify the mode of fighting;
there is, therefore, a reciprocity of action between the two.

Nevertheless, the fight itself remains still an entirely special

activity, more particularly because it moves in an entirely
special element, namely, in the element of danger.

If, then, there is anywhere a necessity for drawing a line

between two different activities, it is here; and in order to see
clearly the importance of this idea, we need only just to call to
mind how often eminent personal fitness in one field has
turned out nothing but the most useless pedantry in the other.

It is also in no way difficult to separate in idea the one

activity from the other, if we look at the combatant forces
fully armed and equipped as a given means, the profitable use
of which requires nothing more than a knowledge of their
general results.

The art of war is therefore, in its proper sense, the art of

making use of the given means in fighting, and we cannot
give it a better name than the ‘conduct of war’. On the other
hand, in a wider sense all activities which have their existence
on account of war, therefore the whole creation of troops, that
is levying them, arming, equipping, and exercising them,
belong to the art of war.

To make a sound theory it is most essential to separate these

two activities, for it is easy to see that if every act of war is to
begin with the preparation of military forces, and to
presuppose forces so organised as a primary condition for
conducting war, that theory will only be applicable in the few

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cases to which the force available happens to be exactly
suited. If, on the other hand, we wish to have a theory which
shall suit most cases, and will not be wholly useless in any
case, it must be founded on those means which are in most
general use, and in respect to these only on the actual results
springing from them.

The conduct of war is, therefore, the formation and conduct of

the fighting. If this fighting was a single act, there would be
no necessity for any further subdivision, but the fight is
composed of a greater or less number of single acts, complete
in themselves, which we call combats, as we have shown in
the first chapter of the first book, and which form new units.
From this arises the totally different activities, that of the
formation and conduct of these single combats in themselves,
and the combination of them with one another, with a view to
the ultimate object of the war. The first is called tactics, the
other strategy.

This division into tactics and strategy is now in almost

general use, and everyone knows tolerably well under which
head to place any single fact, without knowing very distinctly
the grounds on which the classification is founded. But when
such divisions are blindly adhered to in practice, they must
have some deep root. We have searched for this root, and we
might say that it is just the usage of the majority which has
brought us to it. On the other hand, we look upon the
arbitrary, unnatural definitions of these conceptions sought to
be established by some writers as not in accordance with the
general usage of the terms.

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According to our classification, therefore, tactics is the theory
of the use of military forces in combat. Strategy is the theory
of the use of combats for the object of the War.

The way in which the conception of a single, or independent

combat, is more closely determined, the conditions to which
this unit is attached, we shall only be able to explain clearly
when we consider the combat; we must content ourselves for
the present with saying that in relation to space, therefore in
combats taking place at the same time, the unit reaches just as
far as personal command reaches; but in regard to time, and
therefore in relation to combats which follow each other in
close succession, it reaches to the moment when the crisis
which takes place in every combat is entirely passed.

That doubtful cases may occur, cases, for instance, in which

several combats may perhaps be regarded also as a single one,
will not overthrow the ground of distinction we have adopted,
for the same is the case with all grounds of distinction of real
things which are differentiated by a gradually diminishing
scale. There may, therefore, certainly be acts of activity in
war which, without any alteration in the point of view, may
just as well be counted strategic as tactical; for example, very
extended positions resembling a chain of posts, the
preparations for the passage of a river at several points, etc.

Our classification reaches and covers only the use of the

military force. But now there are in war a number of activities
which are subservient to it, and still are quite different from it;
sometimes closely allied, sometimes less near in their affinity.
All these activities relate to the maintenance of the military
force. In the same way as its creation and training precede its
use, so its maintenance is always a necessary condition. But,

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strictly viewed, all activities thus connected with it are always
to be regarded only as preparations for fighting; they are
certainly nothing more than activities which are very close to
the action, so that they run through the hostile act alternate in
importance with the use of the forces. We have therefore a
right to exclude them as well as the other preparatory
activities from the art of war in its restricted sense, from the
conduct of war properly so called; and we are obliged to do so
if we would comply with the first principle of all theory, the
elimination of all heterogeneous elements. Who would
include in the real ‘conduct of war’ the whole litany of
subsistence and administration, because it is admitted to stand
in constant reciprocal action with the use of the troops, but is
something essentially different from it?

We have said, in the third chapter of our first book, that as the
fight or combat is the only directly effective activity,
therefore the threads of all others, as they end in it, are
included in it. By this we meant to say that to all others an
object was thereby appointed which, in accordance with the
laws peculiar to themselves, they must seek to attain. Here we
must go a little closer into this subject.

The subjects which constitute the activities outside of the

combat are of various kinds.

The one part belongs, in one respect, to the combat itself, is

identical with it, whilst it serves in another respect for the
maintenance of the military force. The other part belongs
purely to the subsistence, and has only, in consequence of the
reciprocal action, a limited influence on the combats by its
results. The subjects which in one respect belong to the
fighting itself are marches, camps, and cantonments, for they

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suppose so many different situations of troops, and where
troops are supposed there the idea of the combat must always
be present.

The other subjects, which only belong to the maintenance, are

subsistence, care of the sick, the supply and repair of arms
and equipment.

Marches are quite identical with the use of the troops. The act
of marching in the combat, generally called manoeuvring,
certainly does not necessarily include the use of weapons, but
it is so completely and necessarily combined with it that it
forms an integral part of that which we call a combat. But the
march outside the combat is nothing but the execution of a
strategic measure. By the strategic plan is settled when,
where, and with what forces a battle is to be delivered – and
to carry that into execution the march is the only means.

The march outside of the combat is therefore an instrument of

strategy, but not on that account exclusively a subject of
strategy, for as the armed force which executes it may be
involved in a possible combat at any moment, therefore its
execution stands also under tactical as well as strategic rules.
If we prescribe to a column its route on a particular side of a
river or of a branch of a mountain, then that is a strategic
measure, for it contains the intention of fighting on that
particular side of the hill or river in preference to the other, in
case a combat should be necessary during the march.

But if a column, instead of following the road through a

valley, marches along the parallel ridge of heights, or for the
convenience of marching divides itself into several columns,
then these are tactical arrangements, for they relate to the

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manner in which we shall use the troops in the anticipated
combat.

The particular order of march is in constant relation with

readiness for combat, is therefore tactical in its nature, for it is
nothing more than the first or preliminary disposition for the
battle which may possibly take place.

As the march is the instrument by which strategy apportions

its active elements, the combats, but these last often only
appear by their results and not in the details of their real
course, it could not fail to happen that in theory the
instrument has often been substituted for the efficient
principle. Thus we hear of a decisive skilful march, allusion
being thereby made to those combat-combinations to which
these marches led. This substitution of ideas is too natural and
conciseness of expression too desirable to call for alteration,
but still it is only a condensed chain of ideas in regard to
which we must never omit to bear in mind the full meaning, if
we would avoid falling into error.

We fall into an error of this description if we attribute to

strategical combinations a power independent of tactical
results. We read of marches and manoeuvres combined, the
object attained, and at the same time not a word about
combat, from which the conclusion is drawn that there are
means in war of conquering an enemy without fighting. The
prolific nature of this error we cannot show until hereafter.

But although a march can be regarded absolutely as an

integral part of the combat, still there are in it certain relations
which do not belong to the combat, and therefore are neither
tactical nor strategic. To these belong all arrangements which

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concern only the accommodation of the troops, the
construction of bridges, roads, etc. These are only conditions;
under many circumstances they are in very close connection,
and may almost identify themselves with the troops, as in
building a bridge in presence of the enemy; but in themselves
they are always extraneous activities, the theory of which
does not form part of the theory of the conduct of war.

Camps, by which we mean every disposition of troops in

concentrated, therefore in battle order, in contradistinction to
cantonments or quarters, are a state of rest, therefore of
restoration; but they are at the same time also the strategic
appointment of a battle on the spot chosen; and by the manner
in which they are taken up they contain the fundamental lines
of the battle, a condition from which every defensive battle
starts; they are therefore essential parts of both strategy and
tactics.

Cantonments take the place of camps for the better

refreshment of the troops. They are therefore, like camps,
strategic subjects as regards position and extent; tactical
subjects as regards internal organisation, with a view to
readiness to fight.

The occupation of camps and cantonments no doubt usually

combines with the recuperation of the troops another object
also, for example, the covering a district of country, the
holding a position; but it can very well be only the first. We
remind our readers that strategy may follow a great diversity
of objects, for everything which appears an advantage may be
the object of a combat, and the preservation of the instrument
with which war is made must necessarily very often become
the object of its partial combinations.

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If, therefore, in such a case strategy ministers only to the
maintenance of the troops, we are not on that account out of
the field of strategy, for we are still engaged with the use of
the military force, because every disposition of that force
upon any point whatever of the theatre of war is such a use.

But if the maintenance of the troops in camp or quarters calls

forth activities which are no employment of the armed force,
such as the construction of huts, pitching of tents, subsistence
and sanitary services in camps or quarters, then such belong
neither to strategy nor tactics.

Even entrenchments, the site and preparation of which are

plainly part of the order of battle, therefore tactical subjects,
do not belong to the theory of the conduct of war so far as
respects the execution of their construction, the knowledge
and skill required for such work being, in point of fact,
qualities inherent in the nature of an organised army; the
theory of the combat takes them for granted.

Amongst the subjects which belong to the mere keeping up of

an armed force, because none of the parts are identified with
the combat, the victualling of the troops themselves comes
first, as it must be done almost daily and for each individual.
Thus it is that it completely permeates military action in the
parts constituting strategy – we say parts constituting strategy,
because during a battle the subsistence of troops will rarely
have any influence in modifying the plan, although the thing
is conceivable enough. The care for the subsistence of the
troops comes therefore into reciprocal action chiefly with
strategy, and there is nothing more common than for the
leading strategic features of a campaign and war to be traced
out in connection with a view to this supply. But however

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frequent and however important these views of supply may
be, the subsistence of the troops always remains a completely
different activity from the use of the troops, and the former
has only an influence on the latter by its results.

The other branches of administrative activity which we have

mentioned stand much farther apart from the use of the
troops. The care of sick and wounded, highly important as it
is for the good of an army, directly affects it only in a small
portion of the individuals composing it, and therefore has
only a weak and indirect influence upon the use of the rest.
The completing and replacing articles of arms and equipment,
except so far as by the organism of the forces it constitutes a
continuous activity inherent in them – takes place only
periodically, and therefore seldom affects strategic plans.

We must, however, here guard ourselves against a mistake. In

certain cases these subjects may be really of decisive
importance. The distance of hospitals and depots of munitions
may very easily be imagined as the sole cause of very
important strategic decisions. We do not wish either to contest
that point or to throw it into the shade. But we are at present
occupied not with the particular facts of a concrete case, but
with abstract theory; and our assertion therefore is that such
an influence is too rare to give the theory of sanitary measures
and the supply of munitions and arms an importance in the
theory of the conduct of war such as to make it worth while to
include in the theory of the conduct of war the consideration
of the different ways and systems which the above theories
may furnish, in the same way as is certainly necessary in
regard to victualling troops.

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If we have clearly understood the results of our reflections,
then the activities belonging to war divide themselves into
two principal classes, into such as are only ‘preparations for
War’ and into the ‘War itself’. This division must therefore
also be made in theory.

The knowledge and applications of skill in the preparations

for war are engaged in the creation, discipline, and
maintenance of all the military forces; what general names
should be given to them we do not enter into, but we see that
artillery, fortification, elementary tactics, as they are called,
the whole organisation and administration of the various
armed forces, and all such things are included. But the theory
of war itself occupies itself with the use of these prepared
means for the object of the war. It needs of the first only the
results, that is, the knowledge of the principal properties of
the means taken in hand for use. This we call ‘the art of war’
in a limited sense, or ‘theory of the conduct of war’, or
‘theory of the employment of armed forces’, all of them
denoting for us the same thing.

The present theory will therefore treat the combat as the real
contest, marches, camps, and cantonments as circumstances
which are more or less identical with it. The subsistence of
the troops will only come into consideration like other given
instances in respect of its results, not as an activity belonging
to the combat.

The art of war thus viewed in its limited sense divides itself
again into tactics and strategy. The former occupies itself with
the form of the separate combat, the latter with its use. Both
connect themselves with the circumstances of marches,
camps, cantonments only through the combat, and these

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circumstances are tactical or strategic according as they relate
to the form or to the signification of the battle.

No doubt there will be many readers who will consider

superfluous this careful separation of two things lying so
close together as tactics and strategy, because it has no direct
effect on the conduct itself of war. We admit, certainly, that it
would be pedantry to look for direct effects on the field of
battle from a theoretical distinction.

But the first business of every theory is to clear up

conceptions and ideas which have been jumbled together,
and, we may say, entangled and confused; and only when a
right understanding is established, as to names and
conceptions, can we hope to progress with clearness and
facility, and be certain that author and reader will always see
things from the same point of view. Tactics and strategy are
two activities mutually permeating each other in time and
space, at the same time essentially different activities, the
inner laws and mutual relations of which cannot be
intelligible at all to the mind until a clear conception of the
nature of each activity is established.

He to whom all this is nothing, must either repudiate all

theoretical consideration, or his understanding has not as yet
been pained by the confused and perplexing ideas resting on
no fixed point of view, leading to no satisfactory result,
sometimes dull, sometimes fantastic, sometimes floating in
vague generalities, which we are often obliged to hear and
read on the conduct of war, owing to the spirit of scientific
investigation having hitherto been little directed to these
subjects.

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Chapter ii

On the Theory of War

1. The first conception of the ‘art of war’ was merely the

preparation of the armed forces

Formerly by the term ‘art of war, or science of war’, nothing

was understood but the totality of those branches of
knowledge and those appliances of skill occupied with
material things. The pattern and preparation and the mode of
using arms, the construction of fortifications and
entrenchments, the organism of an army and the mechanism
of its movements, were the subject of these branches of
knowledge and skill above referred to, and the end and aim of
them all was the establishment of an armed force fit for use in
war. All this concerned merely things belonging to the
material world and a one-sided activity only, and it was in
fact nothing but an activity advancing by gradations from the
lower occupations to a finer kind of mechanical art. The
relation of all this to war itself was very much the same as the
relation of the art of the sword cutler to the art of using the
sword. The employment in the moment of danger and in a
state of constant reciprocal action of the particular energies of
mind and spirit in the direction proposed to them was not yet
even mooted.

2. True war first appears in the art of sieges

In the art of sieges we first perceive a certain degree of

guidance of the combat, something of the action of the
intellectual faculties upon the material forces placed under

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their control, but generally only so far that it very soon
embodied itself again in new material forms, such as
approaches, trenches, counter-approaches, batteries, etc., and
every step which this action of the higher faculties took was
marked by some such result; it was only the thread that was
required on which to string these material inventions in order.
As the intellect can hardly manifest itself in this kind of war,
except in such things, so therefore nearly all that was
necessary was done in that way.

3. Then tactics tried to find its way in the same direction

Afterwards tactics attempted to give to the mechanism of its

joints the character of a general disposition, built upon the
peculiar properties of the instrument, which character leads
indeed to the battlefield, but instead of leading to the free
activity of mind, leads to an army made like an automaton; its
rigid formations and orders of battle, which, movable only by
the word of command, is intended to unwind its activities like
a piece of clockwork.

4. The real conduct of war only made its appearance

incidentally and incognito

The conduct of war properly so called, that is, a use of the

prepared means adapted to the most special requirements, was
not considered as any suitable subject for theory, but one
which should be left to natural talents alone. By degrees, as
war passed from the hand-to-hand encounters of the Middle
Ages into a more regular and systematic form, stray
reflections on this point also forced themselves into men’s
minds, but they mostly appeared only incidentally in memoirs
and narratives, and in a certain measure incognito.

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5. Reflections on military events brought about the want of a
theory

As contemplation on war continually increased, and its

history every day assumed more of a critical character, the
urgent want appeared of the support of fixed maxims and
rules, in order that in the controversies naturally arising about
military events the war of opinions might be brought to some
one point. This whirl of opinions, which neither revolved on
any central pivot nor according to any appreciable laws, could
not but be very distasteful to people’s minds.

6. Endeavours to establish a positive theory

There arose, therefore, an endeavour to establish maxims,

rules, and even systems for the conduct of war. By this the
attainment of a positive object was proposed, without taking
into view the endless difficulties which the conduct of war
presents in that respect. The conduct of war, as we have
shown, has no definite limits in any direction, while every
system has the circumscribing nature of a synthesis, from
which results an irreconcilable opposition between such a
theory and practice.

7. Limitation to material objects

Writers on theory felt the difficulty of the subject soon

enough, and thought themselves entitled to get rid of it by
directing their maxims and systems only upon material things
and a one-sided activity. Their aim was to reach results, as in
the science for the preparation for war, entirely certain and
positive, and therefore only to take into consideration that
which could be made matter of calculation.

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8. Superiority of numbers

The superiority in numbers being a material condition, it was

chosen from amongst all the factors required to produce
victory, because it could be brought under mathematical laws
through combinations of time and space. It was thought
possible to leave out of sight all other circumstances, by
supposing them to be equal on each side, and therefore to
neutralise one another. This would have been very well if it
had been done to gain a preliminary knowledge of this one
factor, according to its relations; but to make it a rule for ever
to consider superiority of numbers as the sole law, to see the
whole secret of the art of war in the formula, in a certain time,
at a certain point, to bring up superior masses – was a
restriction overruled by the force of realities.

9. Victualling of troops

By one theoretical school an attempt was made to systematise

another material element also, by making the subsistence of
troops, according to a previously established organism of the
army, the supreme legislator in the higher conduct of war. In
this way certainly they arrived at definite figures, but at
figures which rested on a number of arbitrary calculations,
and which therefore could not stand the test of practical
application.

10. Base

An ingenious author tried to concentrate in a single

conception, that of a Base, a whole host of objects, amongst
which sundry relations even with immaterial forces found
their way in as well. The list comprised the subsistence of the

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troops, the keeping them complete in numbers and equipment,
the security of communications with the home country, lastly,
the security of retreat in case it became necessary; and, first of
all, he proposed to substitute this conception of a base for all
these things; then for the base itself to substitute its own
length (extent); and, last of all, to substitute the angle formed
by the army with this base: all this was done merely to obtain
a pure geometrical result utterly useless. This last is, in fact,
unavoidable, if we reflect that none of these substitutions
could be made without violating truth and leaving out some of
the things contained in the original conception. The idea of a
base is a real necessity for strategy, and to have conceived it
is meritorious; but to make such a use of it as we have
depicted is completely inadmissible, and would not but lead
to partial conclusions which have forced these theorists into a
direction opposed to common sense, namely, to a belief in the
decisive effect of the enveloping form of attack.

11. Interior lines

As a reaction against this false direction, another geometrical

principle, that of the so-called interior lines, was then elevated
to the throne. Although this principle rests on a sound
foundation, on the truth that the combat is the only effectual
means in war, still it is, just on account of its purely
geometrical nature, nothing but another case of one-sided
theory which can never gain ascendancy in the real world.

12. All these attempts are open to objection

All these attempts at theory are only to be considered in their

analytical part as progress in the province of truth, but in their

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synthetical part, in their precepts and rules, they are quite
unserviceable.

They strive after determinate quantities, whilst in war all is

undetermined, and the calculation has always to be made with
varying quantities.

They direct the attention only upon material forces, while the
whole military action is penetrated throughout by intelligent
forces and their effects.

They only pay regard to activity on one side, whilst war is a

constant state of reciprocal action, the effects of which are
mutual.

13. As a rule they exclude genius

All that was not attainable by such miserable philosophy, the

offspring of partial views, lay outside the precincts of science
and was the field of genius, which raises itself above rules.

Pity the warrior who is contented to crawl about in this

beggardom of rules, which are too bad for genius, over which
it can set itself superior, over which it can perchance make
merry! What genius does must be the best of all rules, and
theory cannot do better than to show how and why it is so.

Pity the theory which sets itself in opposition to the mind! It

cannot repair this contradiction by any humility, and the
humbler it is so much the sooner will ridicule and contempt
drive it out of real life.

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14. The difficulty of theory as soon as moral quantities come
into consideration

Every theory becomes infinitely more difficult from the

moment that it touches on the province of moral quantities.
Architecture and painting know quite well what they are
about as long as they have only to do with matter; there is no
dispute about mechanical or optical construction. But as soon
as the moral activities begin their work, as soon as moral
impressions and feelings are produced, the whole set of rules
dissolves into vague ideas.

The science of medicine is chiefly engaged with bodily

phenomena only; its business is with the animal organism,
which, liable to perpetual change, is never exactly the same
for two moments. This makes its practice very difficult, and
places the judgement of the physician above his science; but
how much more difficult is the case if a moral effect is added,
and how much higher must we place the physician of the
mind?

15. The moral quantities must not be excluded in war

But now the activity in war is never directed solely against

matter; it is always at the same time directed against the
intelligent force which gives life to this matter, and to
separate the two from each other is impossible.

But the intelligent forces are only visible to the inner eye, and
this is different in each person, and often different in the same
person at different times.

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As danger is the general element in which everything moves
in war, it is also chiefly by courage, the feeling of one’s own
power, that the judgement is differently influenced. It is to a
certain extent the crystalline lens through which all
appearances pass before reaching the understanding.

And yet we cannot doubt that these things acquire a certain

objective value simply through experience.

Everyone knows the moral effect of a surprise, of an attack in

flank or rear. Everyone thinks less of the enemy’s courage as
soon as he turns his back, and ventures much more in pursuit
than when pursued. Everyone judges of the enemy’s general
by his reputed talents, by his age and experience, and shapes
his course accordingly. Everyone casts a scrutinising glance
at the spirit and feeling of his own and the enemy’s troops.
All these and similar effects in the province of the moral
nature of man have established themselves by experience, are
perpetually recurring, and therefore warrant our reckoning
them as real quantities of their kind. What could we do with
any theory which should leave them out of consideration?

Certainly experience is an indispensable title for these truths.

With psychological and philosophical sophistries no theory,
no general, should meddle.

16. Principal difficulty of a theory for the conduct of war

In order to comprehend clearly the difficulty of the

proposition which is contained in a theory for the conduct of
war, and thence to deduce the necessary characteristics of
such a theory, we must take a closer view of the chief
particulars which make up the nature of activity in war.

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17. First speciality – moral forces and their effects (hostile
feeling)

The first of these specialities consists in the moral forces and

effects.

The combat is, in its origin, the expression of hostile feeling,

but in our great combats, which we call wars, the hostile
feeling frequently resolves itself into merely a hostile view,
and there is usually no innate hostile feeling residing in
individual against individual. Nevertheless, the combat never
passes off without such feelings being brought into activity.
National hatred, which is seldom wanting in our wars, is a
substitute for personal hostility in the breast of individual
opposed to individual. But where this also is wanting, and at
first no animosity of feeling subsists, a hostile feeling is
kindled by the combat itself; for an act of violence which
anyone commits upon us by order of his superior, will excite
in us a desire to retaliate and be revenged on him, sooner than
on the superior power at whose command the act was done.
This is human, or animal if we will; still it is so. We are very
apt to regard the combat in theory as an abstract trial of
strength, without any participation on the part of the feelings,
and that is one of the thousand errors which theorists
deliberately commit, because they do not see its
consequences.

Besides that excitation of feelings naturally arising from the

combat itself, there are others also which do not essentially
belong to it, but which, on account of their relationship, easily
unite with it – ambition, love of power, enthusiasm of every
kind, etc., etc.

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18. The impressions of danger (courage)

Finally, the combat begets the element of danger, in which all

the activities of war must live and move, like the bird in the
air or the fish in the water. But the influences of danger all
pass into the feelings, either directly – that is, instinctively –
or through the medium of the understanding. The effect in the
first case would be a desire to escape from the danger, and, if
that cannot be done, fright and anxiety. If this effect does not
take place, then it is courage, which is a counterpoise to that
instinct. Courage is, however, by no means an act of the
understanding, but likewise a feeling, like fear; the latter
looks to the physical preservation, courage to the moral
preservation. Courage, then, is a nobler instinct. But because
it is so, it will not allow itself to be used as a lifeless
instrument, which produces its effects exactly according to
prescribed measure. Courage is therefore no mere
counterpoise to danger in order to neutralise the latter in its
effects, but a peculiar power in itself.

19. Extent of the influence of danger

But to estimate exactly the influence of danger upon the

principal actors in war, we must not limit its sphere to the
physical danger of the moment. It dominates over the actor,
not only by threatening him, but also by threatening all
entrusted to him, not only at the moment in which it is
actually present, but also through the imagination at all other
moments, which have a connection with the present; lastly,
not only directly by itself, but also indirectly by the
responsibility which makes it bear with tenfold weight on the
mind of the chief actor. Who could advise, or resolve upon a
great battle, without feeling his mind more or less wrought

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up, or perplexed, by the danger and responsibility which such
a great act of decision carries in itself? We may say that
action in war, in so far as it is real action, not a mere
condition, is never out of the sphere of danger.

20. Other powers of feeling

If we look upon these affections which are excited by hostility

and danger as peculiarly belonging to war, we do not,
therefore, exclude from it all others accompanying man in his
life’s journey. They will also find room here frequently
enough. Certainly we may say that many a petty action of the
passions is silenced in this serious business of life; but that
holds good only in respect to those acting in a lower sphere,
who, hurried on from one state of danger and exertion to
another, lose sight of the rest of the things of life, become
unused to deceit, because it is of no avail with death, and so
attain to that soldierly simplicity of character which has
always been the best representative of the military profession.
In higher regions it is otherwise, for the higher a man’s rank,
the more he must look around him; then arise interests on
every side, and a manifold activity of the passions of good
and bad. Envy and generosity, pride and humility, fierceness
and tenderness, all may appear as active powers in this great
drama.

21. Peculiarity of mind

The peculiar characteristics of mind in the chief actor have, as

well as those of the feelings, a high importance. From an
imaginative, flighty, inexperienced head, and from a calm,
sagacious understanding, different things are to be expected.

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22. From the diversity in mental individualities arises the
diversity of ways leading to the end

It is this great diversity in mental individuality, the influence

of which is to be supposed as chiefly felt in the higher ranks,
because it increases as we progress upwards, which chiefly
produces the diversity of ways leading to the end noticed by
us in the first book, and which gives, to the play of
probabilities and chance, such an unequal share in
determining the course of events.

23. Second peculiarity – living reaction

The second peculiarity in war is the living reaction, and the

reciprocal action resulting therefrom. We do not here speak of
the difficulty of estimating that reaction, for that is included
in the difficulty before mentioned, of treating the moral
powers as quantities; but of this, that reciprocal action, by its
nature, opposes anything like a regular plan. The effect which
any measure produces upon the enemy is the most distinct of
all the data which action affords; but every theory must keep
to classes (or groups) of phenomena, and can never take up
the really individual case in itself: that must everywhere be
left to judgement and talent. It is therefore natural that in a
business such as war, which in its plan – built upon general
circumstances – is so often thwarted by unexpected and
singular accidents, more must generally be left to talent; and
less use can be made of a theoretical guide than in any other.

24. Third peculiarity – uncertainty of all data

Lastly, the great uncertainty of all data in war is a peculiar

difficulty, because all action must, to a certain extent, be

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planned in a mere twilight, which in addition not infrequently
– like the effect of a fog or moonshine – gives to things
exaggerated dimensions and an unnatural appearance.

What this feeble light leaves indistinct to the sight talent must
discover, or must be left to chance. It is therefore again talent,
or the favour of fortune, on which reliance must be placed, for
want of objective knowledge.

25. Positive theory is impossible

With materials of this kind we can only say to ourselves that

it is a sheer impossibility to construct for the art of war a
theory which, like a scaffolding, shall ensure to the chief actor
an external support on all sides. In all those cases in which he
is thrown upon his talent he would find himself away from
this scaffolding of theory and in opposition to it, and,
however many-sided it might be framed, the same result
would ensue of which we spoke when we said that talent and
genius act beyond the law, and theory is in opposition to
reality.

26. Means left by which a theory is possible (the difficulties

are not everywhere equally great)

Two means present themselves of getting out of this

difficulty. In the first place, what we have said of the nature
of military action in general does not apply in the same
manner to the action of everyone, whatever may be his
standing. In the lower ranks the spirit of self-sacrifice is
called more into request, but the difficulties which the
understanding and judgement meet with are infinitely less.
The field of occurrences is more confined. Ends and means

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are fewer in number. Data more distinct; mostly also
contained in the actually visible. But the higher we ascend the
more the difficulties increase, until in the commander-in-chief
they reach their climax, so that with him almost everything
must be left to genius.

Further, according to a division of the subject in agreement

with its nature, the difficulties are not everywhere the same,
but diminish the more results manifest themselves in the
material world, and increase the more they pass into the
moral, and become motives which influence the will.
Therefore it is easier to determine, by theoretical rules, the
order and conduct of a battle, than the use to be made of the
battle itself. Yonder physical weapons clash with each other,
and although mind is not wanting therein, matter must have
its rights. But in the effects to be produced by battles when
the material results become motives, we have only to do with
the moral nature. In a word, it is easier to make a theory for
tactics than for strategy.

27. Theory must be of the nature of observation, not of

doctrine

The second opening for the possibility of a theory lies in the

point of view that it does not necessarily require to be a
direction for action. As a general rule, whenever an activity is
for the most part occupied with the same objects over and
over again, with the same ends and means, although there
may be trifling alterations and a corresponding number of
varieties of combination, such things are capable of becoming
a subject of study for the reasoning faculties. But such study
is just the most essential part of every theory, and has a
peculiar title to that name. It is an analytical investigation of

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the subject that leads to an exact knowledge; and if brought to
bear on the results of experience, which in our case would be
military history, to a thorough familiarity with it. The nearer
theory attains the latter object, so much the more it passes
over from the objective form of knowledge into the subjective
one of skill in action; and so much the more, therefore, it will
prove itself effective when circumstances allow of no other
decision but that of personal talents; it will show its effects in
that talent itself. If theory investigates the subjects which
constitute war; if it separates more distinctly that which at
first sight seems amalgamated; if it explains fully the
properties of the means; if it shows their probable effects; if it
makes evident the nature of objects; if it brings to bear all
over the field of war the light of essentially critical
investigation – then it has fulfilled the chief duties of its
province. It becomes then a guide to him who wishes to make
himself acquainted with war from books; it lights up the
whole road for him, facilitates his progress, educates his
judgement, and shields him from error.

If a man of expertness spends half his life in the endeavour to

clear up an obscure subject thoroughly, he will probably
know more about it than a person who seeks to master it in a
short time. Theory is instituted that each person in succession
may not have to go through the same labour of clearing the
ground and toiling through his subject, but may find the thing
in order, and light admitted on it. It should educate the mind
of the future leader in war, or rather guide him in his
self-instruction, but not accompany him to the field of battle;
just as a sensible tutor forms and enlightens the opening mind
of a youth without, therefore, keeping him in leading strings
all through his life.

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If maxims and rules result of themselves from the
considerations which theory institutes, if the truth accretes
itself into that form of crystal, then theory will not oppose this
natural law of the mind; it will rather, if the arch ends in such
a keystone, bring it prominently out; but so does this, only in
order to satisfy the philosophical law of reason, in order to
show distinctly the point to which the lines all converge, not
in order to form out of it an algebraical formula for use upon
the battlefield; for even these maxims and rules serve more to
determine in the reflecting mind the leading outline of its
habitual movements than as landmarks indicating to it the
way in the act of execution.

28. By this point of view theory becomes possible, and ceases

to be in contradiction to practice

Taking this point of view, there is a possibility afforded of a

satisfactory, that is, of a useful, theory of the conduct of war,
never coming into opposition with the reality, and it will only
depend on rational treatment to bring it so far into harmony
with action that between theory and practice there shall no
longer be that absurd difference which an unreasonable
theory, in defiance of common sense, has often produced, but
which, just as often, narrow-mindedness and ignorance have
used as a pretext for giving way to their natural incapacity.

29. Theory therefore considers the nature of ends and means –

ends and means in tactics

Theory has therefore to consider the nature of the means and

ends.

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In tactics the means are the disciplined armed forces which
are to carry on the contest. The object is victory. The precise
definition of this conception can be better explained hereafter
in the consideration of the combat. Here we content ourselves
by denoting the retirement of the enemy from the field of
battle as the sign of victory. By means of this victory strategy
gains the object for which it appointed the combat, and which
constitutes its special signification. This signification has
certainly some influence on the nature of the victory. A
victory which is intended to weaken the enemy’s armed
forces is a different thing from one which is designed only to
put us in possession of a position. The signification of a
combat may therefore have a sensible influence on the
preparation and conduct of it, consequently will be also a
subject of consideration in tactics.

30. Circumstances which always attend the application of the

means

As there are certain circumstances which attend the combat

throughout, and have more or less influence upon its result,
therefore these must be taken into consideration in the
application of the armed forces.

These circumstances are the locality of the combat (ground),

the time of day, and the weather.

31. Locality

The locality, which we prefer leaving for solution, under the

head of ‘Country and Ground’, might, strictly speaking, be
without any influence at all if the combat took place on a
completely level and uncultivated plain.

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In a country of steppes such a case may occur, but in the
cultivated countries of Europe it is almost an imaginary idea.
Therefore a combat between civilised nations, in which
country and ground have no influence, is hardly conceivable.

32. Time of day

The time of day influences the combat by the difference

between day and night; but the influence naturally extends
further than merely to the limits of these divisions, as every
combat has a certain duration, and great battles last for
several hours. In the preparations for a great battle, it makes
an essential difference whether it begins in the morning or the
evening. At the same time, certainly many battles may be
fought in which the question of the time of day is quite
immaterial, and in the generality of cases its influence is only
trifling.

33. Weather

Still more rarely has the weather any decisive influence, and
it is mostly only by fogs that it plays a part.

34. End and means in strategy

Strategy has in the first instance only the victory, that is, the
tactical result, as a means to its object, and ultimately those
things which lead directly to peace. The application of its
means to this object is at the same time attended by
circumstances which have an influence thereon more or less.

35. Circumstances which attend the application of the means

of strategy

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These circumstances are country and ground, the former
including the territory and inhabitants of the whole theatre of
war; next the time of the day, and the time of the year as well;
lastly, the weather, particularly any unusual state of the same,
severe frost, etc.

36. These form new means

By bringing these things into combination with the results of

a combat, strategy gives this result – and therefore the combat
– a special signification, places before it a particular object.
But when this object is not that which leads directly to peace,
therefore a subordinate one, it is only to be looked upon as a
means; and therefore in strategy we may look upon the results
of combats or victories, in all their different significations, as
means. The conquest of a position is such a result of a combat
applied to ground. But not only are the different combats with
special objects to be considered as means, but also every
higher aim which we may have in view in the combination of
battles directed on a common object is to be regarded as a
means. A winter campaign is a combination of this kind
applied to the season.

There remain, therefore, as objects, only those things which

may be supposed as leading directly to peace. Theory
investigates all these ends and means according to the nature
of their effects and their mutual relations.

37. Strategy deduces only from experience the ends and

means to be examined

The first question is, How does strategy arrive at a complete

list of these things? If there is to be a philosophical inquiry

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leading to an absolute result, it would become entangled in all
those difficulties which the logical necessity of the conduct of
war and its theory exclude. It therefore turns to experience,
and directs its attention on those combinations which military
history can furnish. In this manner, no doubt, nothing more
than a limited theory can be obtained, which only suits
circumstances such as are presented in history. But this
incompleteness is unavoidable, because in any case theory
must either have deduced from, or have compared with,
history what it advances with respect to things. Besides, this
incompleteness in every case is more theoretical than real.

One great advantage of this method is that theory cannot lose

itself in abstruse disquisitions, subtleties, and chimeras, but
must always remain practical.

38. How far the analysis of the means should be carried

Another question is, How far should theory go in its analysis

of the means? Evidently only so far as the elements in a
separate form present themselves for consideration in
practice. The range and effect of different weapons is very
important to tactics; their construction, although these effects
result from it, is a matter of indifference; for the conduct of
war is not making powder and cannon out of a given quantity
of charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre, of copper and tin: the
given quantities for the conduct of war are arms in a finished
state and their effects. Strategy makes use of maps without
troubling itself about triangulations; it does not inquire how
the country is subdivided into departments and provinces, and
how the people are educated and governed, in order to attain
the best military results; but it takes things as it finds them in

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the community of European states, and observes where very
different conditions have a notable influence on war.

39. Great simplification of the knowledge required

That in this manner the number of subjects for theory is much

simplified, and the knowledge requisite for the conduct of war
much reduced, is easy to perceive. The very great mass of
knowledge and appliances of skill which minister to the
action of war in general, and which are necessary before an
army fully equipped can take the field, unite in a few great
results before they are able to reach, in actual war, the final
goal of their activity; just as the streams of a country unite
themselves in rivers before they fall into the sea. Only those
activities emptying themselves directly into the sea of war
have to be studied by him who is to conduct its operations.

40. This explains the rapid growth of great generals, and why
a general is not a man of learning

This result of our considerations is in fact so necessary, that

any other would have made us distrustful of their accuracy.
Only thus is explained how so often men have made their
appearance with great success in war, and indeed in the
higher ranks even in supreme command, whose pursuits had
been previously of a totally different nature; indeed how, as a
rule, the most distinguished generals have never risen from
the very learned or really erudite class of officers, but have
been mostly men who, from the circumstances of their
position, could not have attained to any great amount of
knowledge. On that account those who have considered it
necessary or even beneficial to commence the education of a
future general by instruction in all details have always been

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ridiculed as absurd pedants. It would be easy to show the
injurious tendency of such a course, because the human mind
is trained by the knowledge imparted to it and the direction
given to its ideas. Only what is great can make it great; the
little can only make it little, if the mind itself does not reject it
as something repugnant.

41. Former contradictions

Because this simplicity of knowledge requisite in war was not

attended to, but that knowledge was always jumbled up with
the whole impedimenta of subordinate sciences and arts,
therefore the palpable opposition to the events of real life
which resulted could not be solved otherwise than by
ascribing it all to genius, which requires no theory and for
which no theory could be prescribed.

42. On this account all use of knowledge was denied, and

everything ascribed to natural talents

People with whom common sense had the upper hand felt
sensible of the immense distance remaining to be filled up
between a genius of the highest order and a learned pedant;
and they became in a manner free-thinkers, rejected all belief
in theory, and affirmed the conduct of war to be a natural
function of man, which he performs more or less well
according as he has brought with him into the world more or
less talent in that direction. It cannot be denied that these were
nearer to the truth than those who placed a value on false
knowledge; at the same time it may easily be seen that such a
view is itself but an exaggeration. No activity of the human
understanding is possible without a certain stock of ideas; but
these are, for the greater part at least, not innate but acquired,

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and constitute his knowledge. The only question therefore is,
of what kind should these ideas be; and we think we have
answered it if we say that they should be directed on those
things which man has directly to deal with in war.

43. The knowledge must be made suitable to the position

Inside this field of military activity, the knowledge required

must be different according to the station of the commander.
It will be directed on smaller and more circumscribed objects
if he holds an inferior, upon greater and more comprehensive
ones if he holds a higher situation. There are field marshals
who would not have shone at the head of a cavalry regiment,
and vice versa.

44. The knowledge in war is very simple, but not, at the same
time, very easy

But although the knowledge in war is simple, that is to say

directed to so few subjects, and taking up those only in their
final results, the art of execution is not, on that account, easy.
Of the difficulties to which activity in war is subject
generally, we have already spoken in the first book; we here
omit those things which can only be overcome by courage,
and maintain also that the activity of mind is only simple and
easy in inferior stations, but increases in difficulty with
increase of rank, and in the highest position, in that of
commander-in-chief, is to be reckoned among the most
difficult which there is for the human mind.

45. Of the nature of this knowledge

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The commander of an army neither requires to be a learned
explorer of history nor a publicist, but he must be well versed
in the higher affairs of state; he must know and be able to
judge correctly of traditional tendencies, interests at stake, the
immediate questions at issue, and the characters of leading
persons; he need not be a close observer of men, a sharp
dissector of human character, but he must know the character,
the feelings, the habits, the peculiar faults and inclinations of
those whom he is to command. He need not understand
anything about the make of a carriage, or the harness of a
battery horse, but he must know how to calculate exactly the
march of a column, under different circumstances, according
to the time it requires. These are matters the knowledge of
which cannot be forced out by an apparatus of scientific
formula and machinery: they are only to be gained by the
exercise of an accurate judgement in the observation of things
and of men, aided by a special talent for the apprehension of
both.

The necessary knowledge for a high position in military

action is therefore distinguished by this, that by observation,
therefore by study and reflection, it is only to be attained
through a special talent which as an intellectual instinct
understands how to extract from the phenomena of life only
the essence or spirit, as bees do the honey from the flowers;
and that it is also to be gained by experience of life as well as
by study and reflection. Life will never bring forth a Newton
or an Euler by its rich teachings, but it may bring forth great
calculators in war, such as Condé or Frederick.

It is therefore not necessary that, in order to vindicate the

intellectual dignity of military activity, we should resort to
untruth and silly pedantry. There never has been a great and

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distinguished commander of contracted mind, but very
numerous are the instances of men who, after serving with the
greatest distinction in inferior positions, remained below
mediocrity in the highest, from insufficiency of intellectual
capacity. That even amongst those holding the post of
commander-in-chief there may be a difference according to
the degree of their plenitude of power is a matter of course.

46. Science must become art

Now we have yet to consider one condition which is more

necessary for the knowledge of the conduct of war than for
any other, which is, that it must pass completely into the mind
and almost completely cease to be something objective. In
almost all other arts and occupations of life the active agent
can make use of truths which he has only learnt once, and in
the spirit and sense of which he no longer lives, and which he
extracts from dusty books. Even truths which he has in hand
and uses daily may continue something external to himself. If
the architect takes up a pen to settle the strength of a pier by a
complicated calculation, the truth found as a result is no
emanation from his own mind. He had first to find the data
with labour, and then to submit these to an operation of the
mind, the rule for which he did not discover, the necessity of
which he is perhaps at the moment only partly conscious of,
but which he applies, for the most part, as if by mechanical
dexterity. But it is never so in war. The moral reaction, the
ever-changeful form of things, makes it necessary for the
chief actor to carry in himself the whole mental apparatus of
his knowledge, that anywhere and at every pulsebeat he may
be capable of giving the requisite decision from himself.
Knowledge must, by this complete assimilation with his own
mind and life, be converted into real power. This is the reason

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why everything seems so easy with men distinguished in war,
and why everything is ascribed to natural talent. We say
natural talent, in order thereby to distinguish it from that
which is formed and matured by observation and study.

We think that by these reflections we have explained the

problem of a theory of the conduct of war, and pointed out the
way to its solution.

Of the two fields into which we have divided the conduct of

war, tactics and strategy, the theory of the latter contains
unquestionably, as before observed, the greatest difficulties,
because the first is almost limited to a circumscribed field of
objects, but the latter, in the direction of objects leading
directly to peace, opens to itself an unlimited field of
possibilities. Since for the most part the commander-in-chief
has only to keep these objects steadily in view, therefore the
part of strategy in which he moves is also that which is
particularly subject to this difficulty.

Theory, therefore, especially where it comprehends the

highest services, will stop much sooner in strategy than in
tactics at the simple consideration of things, and content itself
to assist the commander to that insight into things which,
blended with his whole thought, makes his course easier and
surer, never forces him into opposition with himself in order
to obey an objective truth.

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Chapter iii

Art or Science of War

1. Usage still unsettled (Power and knowledge – science when

mere knowing, art when doing is the object)

The choice between these terms seems to be still unsettled,

and no one seems to know rightly on what grounds it should
be decided, and yet the thing is simple. We have already said
elsewhere that ‘knowing’ is something different from ‘doing’.
The two are so different that they should not easily be
mistaken the one for the other. The ‘doing’ cannot properly
stand in any book, and therefore also art should never be the
title of a book. But because we have once accustomed
ourselves to combine in conception, under the name of theory
of art, or simply art, the branches of knowledge (which may
be separately pure sciences) necessary for the practice of an
art, therefore it is consistent to continue this ground of
distinction, and to call everything art when the object is to
carry out the ‘doing’ (being able), as for example, art of
building; science, when merely knowledge is the object; as
science of mathematics, of astronomy. That in every art
certain complete sciences may be included is intelligible of
itself, and should not perplex us. But still it is worth
observing that there is also no science without a mixture of
art. In mathematics, for instance, the use of figures and of
algebra is an art, but that is only one amongst many instances.
The reason is, that however plain and palpable the difference
is between knowledge and power in the composite results of
human knowledge, yet it is difficult to trace out their line of
separation in man himself.

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2. Difficulty of separating perception from judgement (art of
war)

All thinking is indeed art. Where the logician draws the line,
where the premises stop which are the result of cognition –
where judgement begins, there art begins. But more than this:
even the perception of the mind is judgement again, and
consequently art; and at last, even the perception by the
senses as well. In a word, if it is impossible to imagine a
human being possessing merely the faculty of cognition,
devoid of judgement or the reverse, so also art and science
can never be completely separated from each other. The more
these subtle elements of light embody themselves in the
outward forms of the world, so much the more separate
appear their domains; and now once more, where the object is
creation and production, there is the province of art; where
the object is investigation and knowledge science holds sway.
After all this it results of itself that it is more fitting to say art
of war than science of war.

So much for this, because we cannot do without these

conceptions. But now we come forward with the assertion
that war is neither an art nor a science in the real signification,
and that it is just the setting out from that starting-point of
ideas which has led to a wrong direction being taken, which
has caused war to be put on a par with other arts and sciences,
and has led to a number of erroneous analogies.

This has indeed been felt before now, and on that account it
was maintained that war is a handicraft; but there was more
lost than gained by that, for a handicraft is only an inferior art,
and as such is also subject to definite and rigid laws. In reality
the art of war did go on for some time in the spirit of a

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handicraft – we allude to the times of the Condottieri – but
then it received that direction, not from intrinsic but from
external causes; and military history shows how little it was at
that time in accordance with the nature of the thing.

3. War is part of the intercourse of the human race

We say therefore war belongs not to the province of arts and

sciences, but to the province of social life. It is a conflict of
great interests which is settled by bloodshed, and only in that
is it different from others. It would be better, instead of
comparing it with any art, to liken it to business competition,
which is also a conflict of human interests and activities; and
it is still more like state policy, which again, on its part, may
be looked upon as a kind of business competition on a great
scale. Besides, state policy is the womb in which war is
developed, in which its outlines lie hidden in a rudimentary
state, like the qualities of living creatures in their germs.

4. Difference

The essential difference consists in this, that war is no activity

of the will, which exerts itself upon inanimate matter like the
mechanical arts; or upon a living but still passive and yielding
subject, like the human mind and the human feelings in the
ideal arts, but against a living and reacting force. How little
the categories of arts and sciences are applicable to such an
activity strikes us at once; and we can understand at the same
time how that constant seeking and striving after laws like
those which may be developed out of the dead material world
could not but lead to constant errors. And yet it is just the
mechanical arts that some people would imitate in the art of
war. The imitation of the ideal arts was quite out of the

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question, because these themselves dispense too much with
laws and rules, and those hitherto tried, always acknowledged
as insufficient and one-sided, are perpetually undermined and
washed away by the current of opinions, feelings, and
customs.

Whether such a conflict of the living, as takes place and is

settled in war, is subject to general laws, and whether these
are capable of indicating a useful line of action, will be partly
investigated in this book; but so much is evident in itself, that
this, like every other subject which does not surpass our
powers of understanding, may be lighted up, and be made
more or less plain in its inner relations by an inquiring mind,
and that alone is sufficient to realise the idea of a theory.

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Chapter iv

Methodicism

In order to explain ourselves clearly as to the conception of

method, and method of action, which play such an important
part in war, we must be allowed to cast a hasty glance at the
logical hierarchy through which, as through regularly
constituted official functionaries, the world of action is
governed.

Law, in the widest sense strictly applying to perception as

well as action, has plainly something subjective and arbitrary
in its literal meaning, and expresses just that on which we and
those things external to us are dependent. As a subject of
cognition, law is the relation of things and their effects to one
another; as a subject of the will, it is a motive of action, and is
then equivalent to command or prohibition.

Principle is likewise such a law for action, except that it has

not the formal definite meaning, but is only the spirit and
sense of law in order to leave the judgement more freedom of
application when the diversity of the real world cannot be laid
hold of under the definite form of a law. As the judgement
must of itself suggest the cases in which the principle is not
applicable, the latter therefore becomes in that way a real aid
or guiding star for the person acting.

Principle is objective when it is the result of objective truth,

and consequently of equal value for all men; it is subjective,
and then generally called maxim if there are subjective

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relations in it, and if it therefore has a certain value only for
the person himself who makes it.

Rule is frequently taken in the sense of law, and then means

the same as principle, for we say ‘no rule without exceptions’,
but we do not say ‘no law without exceptions’, a sign that
with rule we retain to ourselves more freedom of application.

In another meaning rule is the means used of discerning a

recondite truth in a particular sign lying close at hand, in
order to attach to this particular sign the law of action directed
upon the whole truth. Of this kind are all the rules of games of
play, all abridged processes in mathematics, etc.

Directions and instructions are determinations of action which

have an influence upon a number of minor circumstances too
numerous and unimportant for general laws.

Lastly, method, mode of acting, is an always recurring

pro-ceeding selected out of several possible ones; and
methodicism (methodismus) is that which is determined by
method instead of by general principles or particular
prescriptions. By this the cases which are placed under such
methods must necessarily be supposed alike in their essential
parts. As they cannot all be this, then the point is that at least
as many as possible should be; in other words, that method
should be calculated on the most probable cases.
Methodicism is therefore not founded on determined
particular premises, but on the average probability of cases
one with another; and its ultimate tendency is to set up an
average truth, the constant and uniform application of which
soon acquires something of the nature of a mechanical

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appliance, which in the end does that which is right almost
unwittingly.

The conception of law in relation to perception is not

necessary for the conduct of war, because the complex
phenomena of war are not so regular, and the regular are not
so complex, that we should gain anything more by this
conception than by the simple truth. And where a simple
conception and language is sufficient, to resort to the complex
becomes affected and pedantic. The conception of law in
relation to action cannot be used in the theory of the conduct
of war, because owing to the variableness and diversity of the
phenomena there is in it no determination of such a general
nature as to deserve the name of law.

But principles, rules, prescriptions, and methods are

conceptions indispensable to a theory of the conduct of war,
in so far as that theory leads to positive doctrines, because in
doctrines the truth can only crystallise itself in such forms.

As tactics is the branch of the conduct of war in which theory

can attain the nearest to positive doctrine, therefore these
conceptions will appear in it most frequently.

Not to use cavalry against unbroken infantry except in some

case of special emergency, only to use firearms within
effective range in the combat, to spare the forces as much as
possible for the final struggle – these are tactical principles.
None of them can be applied absolutely in every case, but
they must always be present to the mind of the chief, in order
that the benefit of the truth contained in them may not be lost
in cases where that truth can be of advantage.

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If from the unusual cooking by an enemy’s camp his
movement is inferred, if the intentional exposure of troops in
a combat indicates a false attack, then this way of discerning
the truth is called rule, because from a single visible
circumstance that conclusion is drawn which corresponds
with the same.

If it is a rule to attack the enemy with renewed vigour, as soon

as he begins to limber up his artillery in the combat, then on
this particular fact depends a course of action which is aimed
at the general situation of the enemy as inferred from the
above fact, namely, that he is about to give up the fight, that
he is commencing to draw off his troops, and is neither
capable of making a serious stand while thus drawing off nor
of making his retreat gradually in good order.

Regulations and methods bring preparatory theories into the

conduct of war, in so far as disciplined troops are inoculated
with them as active principles. The whole body of instructions
for formations, drill, and field service are regulations and
methods: in the drill instructions the first predominate, in the
field service instructions the latter. To these things the real
conduct of war attaches itself; it takes them over, therefore, as
given modes of proceeding, and as such they must appear in
the theory of the conduct of war.

But for those activities retaining freedom in the employment

of these forces there cannot be regulations, that is, definite
instructions, because they would do away with freedom of
action. Methods, on the other hand, as a general way of
executing duties as they arise, calculated as we have said, on
an average of probability, or as a dominating influence of
principles and rules carried through to application, may

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certainly appear in the theory of the conduct of war, provided
only they are not represented as something different from
what they are, not as the absolute and necessary modes of
action (systems), but as the best of general forms which may
be used as shorter ways in place of a particular disposition for
the occasion, at discretion.

But the frequent application of methods will be seen to be

most essential and unavoidable in the conduct of war, if we
reflect how much action proceeds on mere conjecture, or in
complete uncertainty, because one side is prevented from
learning all the circumstances which influence the
dispositions of the other, or because, even if these
circumstances which influence the decisions of the one were
really known, there is not, owing to their extent and the
dispositions they would entail, sufficient time for the other to
carry out all necessary counteracting measures – that
therefore measures in war must always be calculated on a
certain number of possibilities; if we reflect how numberless
are the trifling things belonging to any single event, and
which therefore should be taken into account along with it,
and that therefore there is no other means to suppose the one
counteracted by the other, and to base our arrangements only
upon what is of a general nature and probable; if we reflect
lastly that, owing to the increasing number of officers as we
descend the scale of rank, less must be left to the true
discernment and ripe judgement of individuals the lower the
sphere of action, and that when we reach those ranks where
we can look for no other notions but those which the
regulations of the service and experience afford, we must help
them with the methodic forms bordering on those regulations.
This will serve both as a support to their judgement and a
barrier against those extravagant and erroneous views which

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are so especially to be dreaded in a sphere where experience
is so costly.

Besides this absolute need of method in action, we must also

acknowledge that it has a positive advantage, which is that,
through the constant repetition of a formal exercise, a
readiness, precision, and firmness is attained in the movement
of troops which diminishes the natural friction, and makes the
machine move easier.

Method will therefore be the more generally used, become the

more indispensable, the farther down the scale of rank the
position of the active agent; and on the other hand, its use will
diminish upwards, until in the highest position it quite
disappears. For this reason it is more in its place in tactics
than in strategy.

War in its highest aspects consists not of an infinite number

of little events, the diversities in which compensate each
other, and which therefore by a better or worse method are
better or worse governed, but of separate great decisive events
which must be dealt with separately. It is not like a field of
stalks, which, without any regard to the particular form of
each stalk, will be mowed better or worse, according as the
mowing instrument is good or bad, but rather as a group of
large trees, to which the axe must be laid with judgement,
according to the particular form and inclination of each
separate trunk.

How high up in military activity the admissibility of method

in action reaches naturally determines itself, not according to
actual rank, but according to things; and it affects the highest
positions in a less degree, only because these positions have

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the most comprehensive subjects of activity. A constant order
of battle, a constant formation of advance guards and
outposts, are methods by which a general ties not only his
subordinates’ hands, but also his own in certain cases.
Certainly they may have been devised by himself, and may be
applied by him according to circumstances, but they may also
be a subject of theory, in so far as they are based on the
general properties of troops and weapons. On the other hand,
any method by which definite plans for wars or campaigns are
to be given out all ready made as if from a machine are
absolutely worthless.

As long as there exists no theory which can be sustained, that

is, no enlightened treatise on the conduct of war, method in
action cannot but encroach beyond its proper limits in high
places, for men employed in these spheres of activity have not
always had the opportunity of educating themselves, through
study and through contact with the higher interests. In the
impracticable and inconsistent disquisitions of theorists and
critics they cannot find their way, their sound common sense
rejects them, and as they bring with them no knowledge but
that derived from experience, therefore in those cases which
admit of, and require, a free individual treatment they readily
make use of the means which experience gives them – that is,
an imitation of the particular methods practised by great
generals, by which a method of action then arises of itself. If
we see Frederick the Great’s generals always making their
appearance in the so-called oblique order of battle, the
generals of the French Revolution always using turning
movements with a long extended line of battle, and
Bonaparte’s lieutenants rushing to the attack with the bloody
energy of concentrated masses, then we recognise in the
recurrence of the mode of proceeding evidently an adopted

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method, and see therefore that method of action can reach up
to regions bordering on the highest. Should an improved
theory facilitate the study of the conduct of war, form the
mind and judgement of men who are rising to the highest
commands, then also method in action will no longer reach so
far, and so much of it as is to be considered indispensable will
then at least be formed from theory itself, and not take place
out of mere imitation. However pre-eminently a great
commander does things, there is always something subjective
in the way he does them; and if he has a certain manner, a
large share of his individuality is contained in it which does
not always accord with the individuality of the person who
copies his manner.

At the same time, it would neither be possible nor right to

banish subjective methodicism or manner completely from
the conduct of war: it is rather to be regarded as a
manifestation of that influence which the general character of
a war has upon its separate events, and to which satisfaction
can only be done in that way if theory is not able to foresee
this general character and include it in its considerations.
What is more natural than that the war of the French
Revolution had its own way of doing things? and what theory
could ever have included that peculiar method? The evil is
only that such a manner originating in a special case easily
outlives itself, because it continues whilst circumstances
imperceptibly change. This is what theory should prevent by
lucid and rational criticism. When in the year 1806 the
Prussian generals, Prince Louis at Saalfeld, Tauentzien on the
Dornberg near Jena, Grawert before and Rüchel behind
Kappellendorf, all threw themselves into the open jaws of
destruction in the oblique order of Frederick the Great and
managed to ruin Hohenlohe’s army in a way that no army was

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ever ruined, even on the field of battle, all this was done
through a manner which had outlived its day, together with
the most downright stupidity to which methodicism ever led.

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Chapter v

Criticism

The influence of theoretical principles upon real life is

produced more through criticism than through doctrine, for as
criticism is an application of abstract truth to real events,
therefore it not only brings truth of this description nearer to
life, but also accustoms the understanding more to such truths
by the constant repetition of their application. We therefore
think it necessary to fix the point of view for criticism next to
that for theory.

From the simple narration of an historical occurrence which

places events in chronological order, or at most only touches
on their more immediate causes, we separate the critical.

In this critical three different operations of the mind may be

observed.

First, the historical investigation and determining of doubtful

facts. This is properly historical research, and has nothing in
common with theory.

Secondly, the tracing of effects to causes. This is the real

critical inquiry; it is indispensable to theory, for everything
which in theory is to be established, supported, or even
merely explained, by experience can only be settled in this
way.

Thirdly, the testing of the means employed. This is criticism,

properly speaking, in which praise and censure is contained.

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This is where theory helps history, or rather, the teaching to
be derived from it.

In these two last strictly critical parts of historical study, all

depends on tracing things to their primary elements, that is to
say, up to undoubted truths, and not, as is so often done,
resting half-way, that is, on some arbitrary assumption or
supposition.

As respects the tracing of effect to cause, that is often

attended with the insuperable difficulty that the real causes
are not known. In none of the relations of life does this so
frequently happen as in war, where events are seldom fully
known, and still less motives, as the latter have been, perhaps
purposely, concealed by the chief actor, or have been of such
a transient and accidental character that they have been lost
for history. For this reason critical narration must generally
proceed hand in hand with historical investigation, and still
such a want of connection between cause and effect will often
present itself, that it does not seem justifiable to consider
effects as the necessary results of known causes. Here,
therefore, voids must occur, that is, historical results which
cannot be made use of for teaching. All that theory can
demand is that the investigation should be rigidly conducted
up to that point, and there leave off without drawing
conclusions. A real evil springs up only if the known is made
perforce to suffice as an explanation of effects, and thus a
false importance is ascribed to it.

Besides this difficulty, critical inquiry also meets with another

great and intrinsic one, which is that the progress of events in
war seldom proceeds from one simple cause, but from several
in common, and that it therefore is not sufficient to follow up

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a series of events to their origin in a candid and impartial
spirit, but that it is then also necessary to apportion to each
contributing cause its due weight. This leads, therefore, to a
closer investigation of their nature, and thus a critical
investigation may lead into what is the proper field of theory.

The critical consideration, that is, the testing of the means,

leads to the question, Which are the effects peculiar to the
means applied, and whether these effects were comprehended
in the plans of the person directing?

The effects peculiar to the means lead to the investigation of

their nature, and thus again into the field of theory.

We have already seen that in criticism all depends upon

attaining to positive truth; therefore, that we must not stop at
arbitrary propositions which are not allowed by others, and to
which other perhaps equally arbitrary assertions may again be
opposed, so that there is no end to pros and cons; the whole is
without result, and therefore without instruction.

We have seen that both the search for causes and the
examination of means lead into the field of theory; that is,
into the field of universal truth, which does not proceed solely
from the case immediately under examination. If there is a
theory which can be used, then the critical consideration will
appeal to the proofs there afforded, and the examination may
there stop. But where no such theoretical truth is to be found,
the inquiry must be pushed up to the original elements. If this
necessity occurs often, it must lead the historian (according to
a common expression) into a labyrinth of details. He then has
his hands full, and it is impossible for him to stop to give the
requisite attention everywhere; the consequence is, that in

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order to set bounds to his investigation, he adopts some
arbitrary assumptions which, if they do not appear so to him,
do so to others, as they are not evident in themselves or
capable of proof.

A sound theory is therefore an essential foundation for

criticism, and it is impossible for it, without the assistance of
a sensible theory, to attain to that point at which it
commences chiefly to be instructive, that is, where it becomes
demonstration, both convincing and sans réplique.

But it would be a visionary hope to believe in the possibility

of a theory applicable to every abstract truth, leaving nothing
for criticism to do but to place the case under its appropriate
law: it would be ridiculous pedantry to lay down as a rule for
criticism that it must always halt and turn round on reaching
the boundaries of sacred theory. The same spirit of analytical
inquiry which is the origin of theory must also guide the critic
in his work; and it can and must therefore happen that he
strays beyond the boundaries of the province of theory and
elucidates those points with which he is more particularly
concerned. It is more likely, on the contrary, that criticism
would completely fail in its object if it degenerated into a
mechanical application of theory. All positive results of
theoretical inquiry, all principles, rules, and methods, are the
more wanting in generality and positive truth the more they
become positive doctrine. They exist to offer themselves for
use as required, and it must always be left for judgement to
decide whether they are suitable or not. Such results of theory
must never be used in criticism as rules or norms for a
standard, but in the same way as the person acting should use
them, that is, merely as aids to judgement. If it is an
acknowledged principle in tactics that in the usual order of

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battle cavalry should be placed behind infantry, not in line
with it, still it would be folly on this account to condemn
every deviation from this principle. Criticism must investigate
the grounds of the deviation, and it is only in case these are
insufficient that it has a right to appeal to principles laid down
in theory. If it is further established in theory that a divided
attack diminishes the probability of success, still it would be
just as unreasonable, whenever there is a divided attack and
an unsuccessful issue, to regard the latter as the result of the
former, without further investigation into the connection
between the two, as where a divided attack is successful to
infer from it the fallacy of that theoretical principle. The spirit
of investigation which belongs to criticism cannot allow
either. Criticism therefore supports itself chiefly on the results
of the analytical investigation of theory; what has been made
out and determined by theory does not require to be
demonstrated over again by criticism, and it is so determined
by theory that criticism may find it ready demonstrated.

This office of criticism, of examining the effect produced by

certain causes, and whether a means applied has answered its
object, will be easy enough if cause and effect, means and
end, are all near together.

If an army is surprised, and therefore cannot make a regular

and intelligent use of its powers and resources, then the effect
of the surprise is not doubtful. If theory has determined that in
a battle the convergent form of attack is calculated to produce
greater but less certain results, then the question is whether he
who employs that convergent form had in view chiefly that
greatness of result as his object; if so, the proper means were
chosen. But if by this form he intended to make the result
more certain, and that expectation was founded not on some

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exceptional circumstances (in this case), but on the general
nature of the convergent form, as has happened a hundred
times, then he mistook the nature of the means and committed
an error.

Here the work of military investigation and criticism is easy,

and it will always be so when confined to the immediate
effects and objects. This can be done quite at option, if we
abstract the connection of the parts with the whole, and only
look at things in that relation.

But in war, as generally in the world, there is a connection

between everything which belongs to a whole; and therefore,
however small a cause may be in itself, its effects reach to the
end of the act of warfare, and modify or influence the final
result in some degree, let that degree be ever so small. In the
same manner every means must be felt up to the ultimate
object.

We can therefore trace the effects of a cause as long as events

are worth noticing, and in the same way we must not stop at
the testing of a means for the immediate object, but test also
this object as a means to a higher one, and thus ascend the
series of facts in succession, until we come to one so
absolutely necessary in its nature as to require no examination
or proof. In many cases, particularly in what concerns great
and decisive measures, the investigation must be carried to
the final aim, to that which leads immediately to peace.

It is evident that in thus ascending, at every new station which

we reach a new point of view for the judgement is attained, so
that the same means which appeared advisable at one station,

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when looked at from the next above it may have to be
rejected.

The search for the causes of events and the comparison of

means with ends must always go hand in hand in the critical
review of an act, for the investigation of causes leads us first
to the discovery of those things which are worth examining.

This following of the clue up and down is attended with

considerable difficulty, for the farther from an event the cause
lies which we are looking for, the greater must be the number
of other causes which must at the same time be kept in view
and allowed for in reference to the share which they have in
the course of events, and then eliminated, because the higher
the importance of a fact the greater will be the number of
separate forces and circumstances by which it is conditioned.
If we have unravelled the causes of a battle being lost, we
have certainly also ascertained a part of the causes of the
consequences which this defeat has upon the whole war, but
only a part, because the effects of other causes, more or less
according to circumstances, will flow into the final result.

The same multiplicity of circumstances is presented also in

the examination of the means the higher our point of view, for
the higher the object is situated, the greater must be the
number of means employed to reach it. The ultimate object of
the war is the object aimed at by all the armies
simultaneously, and it is therefore necessary that the
consideration should embrace all that each has done or could
have done.

It is obvious that this may sometimes lead to a wide field of

inquiry, in which it is easy to wander and lose the way, and in

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which this difficulty prevails – that a number of assumptions
or suppositions must be made about a variety of things which
do not actually appear, but which in all probability did take
place, and therefore cannot possibly be left out of
consideration.

When Bonaparte, in 1797, at the head of the army of Italy,

advanced from the Tagliamento against the Archduke
Charles, he did so with a view to force that general to a
decisive action before the reinforcements expected from the
Rhine had reached him. If we look only at the immediate
object, the means were well chosen and justified by the result,
for the Archduke was so inferior in numbers that he only
made a show of resistance on the Tagliamento, and when he
saw his adversary so strong and resolute, yielded ground, and
left open the passages of the Norican Alps. Now to what use
could Bonaparte turn this fortunate event? To penetrate into
the heart of the Austrian empire itself, to facilitate the
advance of the Rhine armies under Moreau and Hoche, and
open communication with them? This was the view taken by
Bonaparte, and from this point of view he was right. But now,
if criticism places itself at a higher point of view – namely,
that of the French Directory, which body could see and know
that the armies on the Rhine could not commence the
campaign for six weeks, then the advance of Bonaparte over
the Norican Alps can only be regarded as an extremely
hazardous measure; for if the Austrians had drawn largely on
their Rhine armies to reinforce their army in Styria, so as to
enable the Archduke to fall upon the army of Italy, not only
would that army have been routed, but the whole campaign
lost. This consideration, which attracted the serious attention
of Bonaparte at Villach, no doubt induced him to sign the
armistice of Leoben with so much readiness.

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If criticism takes a still higher position, and if it knows that
the Austrians had no reserves between the army of the
Archduke Charles and Vienna, then we see that Vienna
became threatened by the advance of the army of Italy.

Supposing that Bonaparte knew that the capital was thus

uncovered, and knew that he still retained the same
superiority in numbers over the Archduke as he had in Styria,
then his advance against the heart of the Austrian states was
no longer without purpose, and its value depended on the
value which the Austrians might place on preserving their
capital. If that was so great that, rather than lose it, they
would accept the conditions of peace which Bonaparte was
ready to offer them, it became an object of the first
importance to threaten Vienna. If Bonaparte had any reason to
know this, then criticism may stop there, but if this point was
only problematical, then criticism must take a still higher
position, and ask what would have followed if the Austrians
had resolved to abandon Vienna and retire farther into the
vast dominions still left to them. But it is easy to see that this
question cannot be answered without bringing into the
consideration the probable movements of the Rhine armies on
both sides. Through the decided superiority of numbers on the
side of the French – 130,000 to 80,000 – there could be little
doubt of the result; but then next arises the question, What use
would the Directory make of a victory; whether they would
follow up their success to the opposite frontiers of the
Austrian monarchy, therefore to the complete breaking up or
overthrow of that power, or whether they would be satisfied
with the conquest of a considerable portion to serve as a
security for peace? The probable result in each case must be
estimated, in order to come to a conclusion as to the probable
determination of the Directory. Supposing the result of these

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considerations to be that the French forces were much too
weak for the complete subjugation of the Austrian monarchy,
so that the attempt might completely reverse the respective
positions of the contending armies, and that even the conquest
and occupation of a considerable district of country would
place the French army in strategic relations to which they
were not equal, then that result must naturally influence the
estimate of the position of the army of Italy, and compel it to
lower its expectations. And this it was no doubt which
influenced Bonaparte, although fully aware of the helpless
condition of the Archduke, still to sign the peace of Campo
Formio, which imposed no greater sacrifices on the Austrians
than the loss of provinces which, even if the campaign took
the most favourable turn for them, they could not have
reconquered. But the French could not have reckoned on even
the moderate treaty of Campo Formio, and therefore it could
not have been their object in making their bold advance if two
considerations had not presented themselves to their view, the
first of which consisted in the question, what degree of value
the Austrians would attach to each of the above-mentioned
results; whether, notwithstanding the probability of a
satisfactory result in either of these cases, it would be worth
while to make the sacrifices inseparable from a continuance
of the war, when they could be spared those sacrifices by a
peace on terms not too humiliating? The second consideration
is the question whether the Austrian government, instead of
seriously weighing the possible results of a resistance pushed
to extremities, would not prove completely disheartened by
the impression of their present reverses.

The consideration which forms the subject of the first is no

idle piece of subtle argument, but a consideration of such
decidedly practical importance that it comes up whenever the

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plan of pushing war to the utmost extremity is mooted, and by
its weight in most cases restrains the execution of such plans.

The second consideration is of equal importance, for we do

not make war with an abstraction but with a reality, which we
must always keep in view, and we may be sure that it was not
overlooked by the bold Bonaparte – that is, that he was keenly
alive to the terror which the appearance of his sword inspired.
It was reliance on that which led him to Moscow. There it led
him into a scrape. The terror of him had been weakened by
the gigantic struggles in which he had been engaged; in the
year 1797 it was still fresh, and the secret of a resistance
pushed to extremities had not been discovered; nevertheless
even in 1797 his boldness might have led to a negative result
if, as already said, he had not with a sort of presentiment
avoided it by signing the moderate peace of Campo Formio.

We must now bring these considerations to a close – they will

suffice to show the wide sphere, the diversity and
embarrassing nature of the subjects embraced in a critical
examination carried to the fullest extent, that is, to those
measures of a great and decisive class which must necessarily
be included. It follows from them that besides a theoretical
acquaintance with the subject, natural talent must also have a
great influence on the value of critical examinations, for it
rests chiefly with the latter to throw the requisite light on the
interrelations of things, and to distinguish from amongst the
endless connections of events those which are really essential.

But talent is also called into requisition in another way.

Critical examination is not merely the appreciation of those
means which have been actually employed, but also of all
possible means, which therefore must be suggested in the first

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place – that is, must be discovered; and the use of any
particular means is not fairly open to censure until a better is
pointed out. Now, however small the number of possible
combinations may be in most cases, still it must be admitted
that to point out those which have not been used is not a mere
analysis of actual things, but a spontaneous creation which
cannot be prescribed, and depends on the fertility of genius.

We are far from seeing a field for great genius in a case which
admits only of the application of a few simple combinations,
and we think it exceedingly ridiculous to hold up, as is often
done, the turning of a position as an invention showing the
highest genius; still nevertheless this creative self-activity on
the part of the critic is necessary, and it is one of the points
which essentially determine the value of critical examination.

When Bonaparte on 30 July 1796 determined to raise the

siege of Mantua, in order to march with his whole force
against the enemy, advancing in separate columns to the relief
of the place, and to beat them in detail, this appeared the
surest way to the attainment of brilliant victories. These
victories actually followed, and were afterwards again
repeated on a still more brilliant scale on the attempt to
relieve the fortress being again renewed. We hear only one
opinion on these achievements, that of unmixed admiration.

At the same time, Bonaparte could not have adopted this

course on 30 July without quite giving up the idea of the siege
of Mantua, because it was impossible to save the siege train,
and it could not be replaced by another in this campaign. In
fact, the siege was converted into a blockade, and the town,
which if the siege had continued must have very shortly

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fallen, held out for six months in spite of Bonaparte’s
victories in the open field.

Criticism has generally regarded this as an evil that was

unavoidable, because critics have not been able to suggest any
better course. Resistance to a relieving army within lines of
circumvallation had fallen into such disrepute and contempt
that it appears to have entirely escaped consideration as a
means. And yet in the reign of Louis XIV that measure was
so often used with success that we can only attribute to the
force of fashion the fact that a hundred years later it never
occurred to anyone even to propose such a measure. If the
practicability of such a plan had ever been entertained for a
moment, a closer consideration of circumstances would have
shown that 40,000 of the best infantry in the world under
Bonaparte, behind strong lines of circumvallation round
Mantua, had so little to fear from the 50,000 men coming to
the relief under Wurmser, that it was very unlikely that any
attempt even would be made upon their lines. We shall not
seek here to establish this point, but we believe enough has
been said to show that this means was one which had a right
to a share of consideration. Whether Bonaparte himself ever
thought of such a plan we leave undecided; neither in his
memoirs nor in other sources is there any trace to be found of
his having done so; in no critical works has it been touched
upon, the measure being one which the mind had lost sight of.
The merit of resuscitating the idea of this means is not great,
for it suggests itself at once to any one who breaks loose from
the trammels of fashion. Still it is necessary that it should
suggest itself for us to bring it into consideration and compare
it with the means which Bonaparte employed. Whatever may
be the result of the comparison, it is one which should not be
omitted by criticism.

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When Bonaparte, in February 1814, after gaining the battles
at Etoges, Champ-Aubert, and Montmirail, left Blücher’s
army, and turning upon Schwartzenberg, beat his troops at
Montereau and Mormant, everyone was filled with
admiration, because Bonaparte, by thus throwing his
concentrated force first upon one opponent, then upon
another, made a brilliant use of the mistakes which his
adversaries had committed in dividing their forces. If these
brilliant strokes in different directions failed to save him, it
was generally considered to be no fault of his, at least. No one
has yet asked the question; What would have been the result
if, instead of turning from Blücher upon Schwartzenberg, he
had tried another blow at Blücher, and pursued him to the
Rhine? We are convinced that it would have completely
changed the course of the campaign, and that the army of the
allies, instead of marching to Paris, would have retired behind
the Rhine. We do not ask others to share our conviction, but
no one who understands the thing will doubt, at the mere
mention of this alternative course, that it is one which should
not be overlooked in criticism.

In this case the means of comparison lie much more on the

surface than in the foregoing, but they have been equally
overlooked, because one-sided views have prevailed, and
there has been no freedom of judgement.

From the necessity of pointing out a better means which

might have been used in place of those which are condemned
has arisen the form of criticism almost exclusively in use,
which contents itself with pointing out the better means
without demonstrating in what the superiority consists. The
consequence is that some are not convinced, that others start
up and do the same thing, and that thus discussion arises

193
which is without any fixed basis for the argument. Military
literature abounds with matter of this sort.

The demonstration we require is always necessary when the

superiority of the means propounded is not so evident as to
leave no room for doubt, and it consists in the examination of
each of the means on its own merits, and then of its
comparison with the object desired. When once the thing is
traced back to a simple truth, controversy must cease, or at all
events a new result is obtained, whilst by the other plan the
pros and cons go on for ever consuming each other.

Should we, for example, not rest content with assertion in the
case before mentioned, and wish to prove that the persistent
pursuit of Blücher would have been more advantageous than
the turning on Schwartzenberg, we should support the
arguments on the following simple truths:

1. In general it is more advantageous to continue our blows in

one and the same direction, because there is a loss of time in
striking in different directions; and at a point where the moral
power is already shaken by considerable losses there is the
more reason to expect fresh successes, therefore in that way
no part of the preponderance already gained is left idle.

2. Because Blücher, although weaker than Schwartzenberg,

was, on account of his enterprising spirit, the more important
adversary; in him, therefore, lay the centre of attraction which
drew the others along in the same direction.

3. Because the losses which Blücher had sustained almost

amounted to a defeat, which gave Bonaparte such a
preponderance over him as to make his retreat to the Rhine

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almost certain, and at the same time no reserves of any
consequence awaited him there.

4. Because there was no other result which would be so

terrific in its aspects, would appear to the imagination in such
gigantic proportions, an immense advantage in dealing with a
staff so weak and irresolute as that of Schwartzenberg
notoriously was at this time. What had happened to the
Crown Prince of Würtemberg at Montereau, and to Count
Wittgenstein at Mormant, Prince Schwartzenberg must have
known well enough; but all the untoward events on Blücher’s
distant and separate line from the Marne to the Rhine would
only reach him by the avalanche of rumour. The desperate
movements which Bonaparte made upon Vitry at the end of
March, to see what the allies would do if he threatened to turn
them strategically, were evidently done on the principle of
working on their fears; but it was done under far different
circumstances, in consequence of his defeat at Laon and
Arcis, and because Blücher, with 100,000 men, was then in
communication with Schwartzenberg.

There are people, no doubt, who will not be convinced on

these arguments, but at all events they cannot retort by saying,
that ‘whilst Bonaparte threatened Schwartzenberg’s base by
advancing to the Rhine, Schwartzenberg at the same time
threatened Bonaparte’s communications with Paris’, because
we have shown by the reasons above given that
Schwartzenberg would never have thought of marching on
Paris.

With respect to the example quoted by us from the campaign

of 1796, we should say: Bonaparte looked upon the plan he
adopted as the surest means of beating the Austrians; but

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admitting that it was so, still the object to be attained was
only an empty victory, which could have hardly any sensible
influence on the fall of Mantua. The way which we should
have chosen would, in our opinion, have been much more
certain to prevent the relief of Mantua; but even if we place
ourselves in the position of the French general and assume
that it was not so, and look upon the certainty of success to
have been less, the question then amounts to a choice between
a more certain but less useful, and therefore less important,
victory on the one hand, and a somewhat less probable but far
more decisive and important victory on the other hand.
Presented in this form, boldness must have declared for the
second solution, which is the reverse of what took place,
when the thing was only superficially viewed. Bonaparte
certainly was anything but deficient in boldness, and we may
be sure that he did not see the whole case and its
consequences as fully and clearly as we can at the present
time.

Naturally the critic, in treating of the means, must often

appeal to military history, as experience is of more value in
the art of war than all philosophical truth. But this
exemplification from history is subject to certain conditions,
of which we shall treat in a special chapter, and unfortunately
these conditions are so seldom regarded that reference to
history generally only serves to increase the confusion of
ideas.

We have still a most important subject to consider, which is,

how far criticism in passing judgements on particular events
is permitted, or in duty bound, to make use of its wider view
of things, and therefore also of that which is shown by results;
or when and where it should leave out of sight these things in

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order to place itself, as far as possible, in the exact position of
the chief actor?

If criticism dispenses praise or censure, it should seek to place

itself as nearly as possible at the same point of view as the
person acting, that is to say, to collect all he knew and all the
motives on which he acted, and, on the other hand, to leave
out of the consideration all that the person acting could not or
did not know, and above all, the result. But this is only an
object to aim at, which can never be reached because the state
of circumstances from which an event proceeded can never be
placed before the eye of the critic exactly as it lay before the
eye of the person acting. A number of inferior circumstances,
which must have influenced the result, are completely lost to
sight, and many a subjective motive has never come to light.

The latter can only be learnt from the memoirs of the chief
actor, or from his intimate friends; and in such memoirs
things of this kind are often treated of in a very desultory
manner, or purposely misrepresented. Criticism must,
therefore, always forgo much which was present in the minds
of those whose acts are criticised.

On the other hand, it is much more difficult to leave out of

sight that which criticism knows in excess. This is only easy
as regards accidental circumstances, that is, circumstances
which have been mixed up, but are in no way necessarily
related. But it is very difficult, and, in fact, can never be
completely done with regard to things really essential.

Let us take first, the result. If it has not proceeded from

accidental circumstances, it is almost impossible that the
know-ledge of it should not have an effect on the judgement

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passed on events which have preceded it, for we see these
things in the light of this result, and it is to a certain extent by
it that we first become acquainted with them and appreciate
them. Military history with all its events, is a source of
instruction for criticism itself and it is only natural that
criticism should throw that light on things which it has itself
obtained from the consideration of the whole. If therefore it
might wish in some cases to leave the result out of the
consideration, it would be impossible to do so completely.

But it is not only in relation to the result, that is, with what
takes place at the last, that this embarrassment arises; the
same occurs in relation to preceding events, therefore with the
data which furnished the motives to action. Criticism has
before it, in most cases, more information on this point than
the principle in the transaction. Now it may seem easy to
dismiss from the consideration everything of this nature, but it
is not so easy as we may think. The knowledge of preceding
and concurrent events is founded not only on certain
information, but on a number of conjectures and suppositions;
indeed, there is hardly any of the information respecting
things not purely accidental which has not been preceded by
suppositions or conjectures destined to take the place of
certain information in case such should never be supplied.
Now is it conceivable that criticism in after times, which has
before it as facts all the preceding and concurrent
circumstances, should not allow itself to be thereby
influenced when it asks itself the question: What portion of
the circumstances, which at the moment of action were
unknown, would it have held to be probable? We maintain
that in this case, as in the case of the results, and for the same
reason, it is impossible to disregard all these things
completely.

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If therefore the critic wishes to bestow praise or blame upon
any single act, he can only succeed to a certain degree in
placing himself in the position of the person whose act he has
under review. In many cases he can do so sufficiently near for
any practical purpose, but in many instances it is the very
reverse, and this fact should never be overlooked.

But it is neither necessary nor desirable that criticism should

completely identify itself with the person acting. In war, as in
all matters of skill, there is a certain natural aptitude required
which is called talent. This may be great or small. In the first
case it may easily be superior to that of the critic, for what
critic can pretend to the skill of a Frederick or a Bonaparte?
Therefore, if criticism is not to abstain altogether from
offering an opinion where eminent talent is concerned, it must
be allowed to make use of the advantage which its enlarged
horizon affords. Criticism must not, therefore, treat the
solution of a problem by a great general like a sum in
arithmetic; it is only through the results and through the exact
coincidences of events that it can recognise with admiration
how much is due to the exercise of genius, and that it first
learns the essential combination which the glance of that
genius devised.

But for every, even the smallest, act of genius it is necessary

that criticism should take a higher point of view, so that,
having at command many objective grounds of decision, it
may be as little subjective as possible, and that the critic may
not take the limited scope of his own mind as a standard.

This elevated position of criticism, its praise and blame

pronounced with a full knowledge of all the circumstances,
has in itself nothing which hurts our feelings; it only does so

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if the critic pushes himself forward, and speaks in a tone as if
all the wisdom which he has obtained by an exhaustive
examination of the event under consideration were really his
own talent. Palpable as is this deception, it is one which
people may easily fall into through vanity, and one which is
naturally distasteful to others. It very often happens that
although the critic has no such arrogant pretensions, they are
imputed to him by the reader because he has not expressly
disclaimed them, and then follows immediately a charge of a
want of the power of critical judgement.

If therefore a critic points out an error made by a Frederick or

a Bonaparte, that does not mean that he who makes the
criticism would not have committed the same error; he may
even be ready to grant that had he been in the place of these
great generals he might have made much greater mistakes; he
merely sees this error from the chain of events, and he thinks
that it should not have escaped the sagacity of the general.

This is, therefore, an opinion formed through the connection

of events, and therefore through the result. But there is
another quite different effect of the result itself upon the
judgement, that is if it is used quite alone as an example for or
against the soundness of a measure. This may be called
judgement according to the result. Such a judgement appears
at first sight inadmissible and yet it is not.

When Bonaparte marched to Moscow in 1812, all depended

upon whether the taking of the capital, and the events which
preceded the capture, would force the Emperor Alexander to
make peace, as he had been compelled to do after the battle of
Friedland in 1807, and the Emperor Francis in 1805 and 1809
after Austerlitz and Wagram; for if Bonaparte did not obtain a

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peace at Moscow, there was no alternative but to return – that
is, there was nothing for him but a strategic defeat. We shall
leave out of the question what he did to get to Moscow, and
whether in his advance he did not miss many opportunities of
bringing the Emperor Alexander to peace; we shall also
exclude all consideration of the disastrous circumstances
which attended his retreat, and which perhaps had their origin
in the general conduct of the campaign. Still the question
remains the same, for however much more brilliant the course
of the campaign up to Moscow might have been, still there
was always an uncertainty whether the Emperor Alexander
would be intimidated into making peace; and then, even if a
retreat did not contain in itself the seeds of such disasters as
did in fact occur, still it could never be anything else than a
great strategic defeat. If the Emperor Alexander agreed to a
peace which was disadvantageous to him, the campaign of
1812 would have ranked with those of Austerlitz, Friedland,
and Wagram. But these campaigns also, if they had not led to
peace, would in all probability have ended in similar
catastrophes. Whatever, therefore, of genius, skill, and energy
the Conqueror of the World applied to the task, this last
question addressed to fate remained always the same. Shall
we then discard the campaigns of 1805, 1807, 1809, and say
on account of the campaign of 1812 that they were acts of
imprudence; that the results were against the nature of things,
and that in 1812 strategic justice at last found vent for itself in
opposition to blind chance? That would be an unwarrantable
conclusion, a most arbitrary judgement, a case only half
proved, because no human eye can trace the thread of the
necessary connection of events up to the determination of the
conquered Princes.

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Still less can we say the campaign of 1812 merited the same
success as the others, and that the reason why it turned out
otherwise lies in something unnatural, for we cannot regard
the firmness of Alexander as something unpredictable.

What can be more natural than to say that in the years 1805,
1807, 1809, Bonaparte judged his opponents correctly, and
that in 1812 he erred in that point? On the former occasions,
therefore, he was right, in the latter wrong, and in both cases
we judge by the result.

All action in war, as we have already said, is directed on

probable, not on certain, results. Whatever is wanting in
certainty must always be left to fate, or chance, call it which
you will. We may demand that what is so left should be as
little as possible, but only in relation to the particular case –
that is, as little as is possible in this one case, but not that the
case in which the least is left to chance is always to be
preferred. That would be an enormous error, as follows from
all our theoretical views. There are cases in which the greatest
daring is the greatest wisdom.

Now in everything which is left to chance by the chief actor,

his personal merit, and therefore his responsibility as well,
seems to be completely set aside; nevertheless we cannot
suppress an inward feeling of satisfaction whenever
expectation realises itself, and if it disappoints us our mind is
dissatisfied; and more than this of right and wrong should not
be meant by the judgement which we form from the mere
result, or rather that we find there.

Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the satisfaction which

our mind experiences at success, the pain caused by failure,

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proceed from a sort of mysterious feeling; we suppose
between that success ascribed to good fortune and the genius
of the chief a fine connecting thread, invisible to the mind’s
eye, and the supposition gives pleasure. What tends to
confirm this idea is that our sympathy increases, becomes
more decided, if the successes and defeats of the principal
actor are often repeated. Thus it becomes intelligible how
good luck in war assumes a much nobler nature than good
luck at play. In general, when a fortunate warrior does not
otherwise lessen our interest in his behalf, we have a pleasure
in accompanying him in his career.

Criticism, therefore, after having weighed all that comes

within the sphere of human reason and conviction, will let the
result speak for that part where the deep mysterious relations
are not disclosed in any visible form, and will protect this
silent sentence of a higher authority from the noise of crude
opinions on the one hand, while on the other it prevents the
gross abuse which might be made of this last tribunal.

This verdict of the result must therefore always bring forth

that which human sagacity cannot discover; and it will be
chiefly as regards the intellectual powers and operations that
it will be called into requisition, partly because they can be
estimated with the least certainty, partly because their close
connection with the will is favourable to their exercising over
it an important influence. When fear or bravery precipitates
the decision, there is nothing objective intervening between
them for our consideration, and consequently nothing by
which sagacity and calculation might have met the probable
result.

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We must now be allowed to make a few observations on the
instrument of criticism, that is, the language which it uses,
because that is to a certain extent connected with the action in
war; for the critical examination is nothing more than the
deliberation which should precede action in war. We therefore
think it very essential that the language used in criticism
should have the same character as that which deliberation in
war must have, for otherwise it would cease to be practical,
and criticism could gain no admittance in actual life.

We have said in our observations on the theory of the conduct

of war that it should educate the mind of the commander for
war, or that its teaching should guide his education; also that
it is not intended to furnish him with positive doctrines and
systems which he can use like mental appliances. But if the
construction of scientific formulae is never required, or even
allowable, in war to aid the decision on the case presented, if
truth does not appear there in a systematic shape, if it is not
found in an indirect way, but directly by the natural
perception of the mind, then it must be the same also in a
critical review.

It is true as we have seen that, wherever complete

demonstration of the nature of things would be too tedious,
criticism must support itself on those truths which theory has
established on the point. But, just us in war the actor obeys
these theoretical truths rather because his mind is imbued
with them than because he regards them as objective
inflexible laws, so criticism must also make use of them, not
as an external law or an algebraic formula, of which fresh
proof is not required each time they are applied, but it must
always throw a light on this proof itself, leaving only to
theory the more minute and circumstantial proof. Thus it

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avoids a mysterious, unintelligible phraseology, and makes its
progress in plain language, that is, with a clear and always
visible chain of ideas.

Certainly this cannot always be completely attained, but it

must always be the aim in critical expositions. Such
expositions must use complicated forms of science as
sparingly as possible, and never resort to the construction of
scientific aids as of a truth apparatus of its own, but always be
guided by the natural and unbiased impressions of the mind.

But this pious endeavour, if we may use the expression, has

unfortunately seldom hitherto presided over critical
examinations: the most of them have rather been emanations
of a species of vanity – a wish to make a display of ideas.

The first evil which we constantly stumble upon is a lame,

totally inadmissible application of certain one-sided systems
as of a formal code of laws. But it is never difficult to show
the one-sidedness of such systems, and this only requires to
be done once to throw discredit for ever on critical
judgements which are based on them. We have here to deal
with a definite subject, and as the number of possible systems
after all can be but small, therefore also they are themselves
the lesser evil.

Much greater is the evil which lies in the pompous retinue of

technical terms – scientific expressions and metaphors, which
these systems carry in their train, and which like a rabble –
like the baggage of an army broken away from its chief –
hang about in all directions. Any critic who has not adopted a
system, either because he has not found one to please him, or
because he has not yet been able to make himself master of

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one, will at least occasionally make use of a piece of one, as
one would use a ruler, to show the blunders committed by a
general. The most of them are incapable of reasoning without
using as a help here and there some shreds of scientific
military theory. The smallest of these fragments, consisting in
mere scientific words and metaphors, are often nothing more
than ornamental flourishes of critical narration. Now it is in
the nature of things that all technical and scientific
expressions which belong to a system lose their propriety, if
they ever had any, as soon as they are distorted, and used as
general axioms, or as small crystalline talismans, which have
more power of demonstration than simple speech.

Thus it has come to pass that our theoretical and critical

books, instead of being straightforward, intelligible
dissertations, in which the author always knows at least what
he says and the reader what he reads, are brimful of these
technical terms, which form dark points of interference where
author and reader part company. But frequently they are
something worse, being nothing but hollow shells without any
kernel. The author himself has no clear perception of what he
means, contents himself with vague ideas, which if expressed
in plain language would be unsatisfactory even to himself.

A third fault in criticism is the misuse of historical examples,

and a display of great reading or learning. What the history of
the art of war is we have already said, and we shall further
explain our views on examples and on military history in
general in special chapters. One fact merely touched upon in a
very cursory manner may be used to support the most
opposite views, and three or four such facts of the most
heterogeneous description, brought together out of the most
distant lands and remote times and heaped up, generally

206
distract and bewilder the judgement and understanding
without demonstrating anything; for when exposed to the
light they turn out to be only trumpery rubbish, made use of
to show off the author’s learning.

But what can be gained for practical life by such obscure,

partly false, confused arbitrary conceptions? So little is
gained that theory on account of them has always been a true
antithesis of practice, and frequently a subject of ridicule to
those whose soldierly qualities in the field are above question.

But it is impossible that this could have been the case, if

theory in simple language, and by natural treatment of those
things which constitute the art of making war, had merely
sought to establish just so much as admits of being
established; if, avoiding all false pretensions and irrelevant
display of scientific forms and historical parallels, it had kept
close to the subject, and gone hand in hand with those who
must conduct affairs in the field by their own natural genius.

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Chapter vi

On Examples

Examples from history make everything clear, and furnish the

best description of proof in the empirical sciences. This
applies with more force to the art of war than to any other.
General Scharnhorst, whose handbook is the best ever written
on actual war, pronounces historical examples to be of the
first importance, and makes an admirable use of them
himself. Had he survived the war in which he fell, the fourth
part of his revised treatise on artillery would have given a still
greater proof of the observing and enlightened spirit in which
he sifted matters of experience.

But such use of historical examples is rarely made by

theoretical writers; the way in which they more commonly
make use of them is rather calculated to leave the mind
unsatisfied, as well as to offend the understanding. We
therefore think it important to bring specially into view the
use and abuse of historical examples.

Unquestionably the branches of knowledge which lie at the

foundation of the art of war come under the denomination of
empirical sciences; for although they are derived in a great
measure from the nature of things, still we can only learn this
very nature itself for the most part from experience; and
besides that, the practical application is modified by so many
circumstances that the effects can never be completely learnt
from the mere nature of the means.

208
The effects of gunpowder, that great agent in our military
activity, were only learnt by experience, and up to this hour
experiments are continually in progress in order to investigate
them more fully. That an iron ball to which powder has given
a velocity of 1,000 feet in a second, smashes every living
thing which it touches in its course is intelligible in itself;
experience is not required to tell us that; but in producing this
effect how many hundred circumstances are concerned, some
of which can only be learnt by experience! And the physical
is not the only effect which we have to study, it is the moral
which we are in search of, and that can only be ascertained by
experience; and there is no other way of learning and
appreciating it but by experience. In the Middle Ages, when
firearms were first invented, their effect, owing to their rude
make, was materially but trifling compared to what it now is,
but their effect morally was much greater. One must have
witnessed the firmness of one of those masses taught and led
by Bonaparte, under the heaviest and most unintermittent
cannonade, in order to understand what troops, hardened by
long practice in the field of danger, can do, when by a career
of victory they have reached the noble principle of demanding
from themselves their utmost efforts. In pure conception no
one would believe it. On the other hand, it is well known that
there are troops in the service of European powers at the
present moment who would easily be dispersed by a few
cannon shots.

But no empirical science, consequently also no theory of the

art of war, can always corroborate its truths by historical
proof; it would also be, in some measure, difficult to support
experience by single facts. If any means is once found
efficacious in war, it is repeated; one nation copies another,
the thing becomes the fashion, and in this manner it comes

209
into use, supported by experience, and takes its place in
theory, which contents itself with appealing to experience in
general in order to show its origin, but not as a verification of
its truth.

But it is quite otherwise if experience is to be used in order to

overthrow some means in use, to confirm what is doubtful, or
introduce something new; then particular examples from
history must be quoted as proofs.

Now, if we consider closely the use of historical proofs, four

points of view readily present themselves for the purpose.

First, they may be used merely as an explanation of an idea.

In every abstract consideration it is very easy to be
misunderstood, or not to be intelligible at all: when an author
is afraid of this, an exemplification from history serves to
throw the light which is wanted on his idea, and to ensure his
being intelligible to his reader.

Secondly, it may serve as an application of an idea, because

by means of an example there is an opportunity of showing
the action of those minor circumstances which cannot all be
comprehended and explained in any general expression of an
idea; for in that consists, indeed, the difference between
theory and experience. Both these cases belong to examples
properly speaking, the two following belong to historical
proofs.

Thirdly, a historical fact may be referred to particularly, in

order to support what one has advanced. This is in all cases
sufficient, if we have only to prove the possibility of a fact or
effect.

210
Lastly, in the fourth place, from the circumstantial detail of a
historical event, and by collecting together several of them,
we may deduce some theory, which therefore has its true
proof in this testimony itself.

For the first of these purposes all that is generally required is

a cursory notice of the case, as it is only used partially.
Historical correctness is a secondary consideration; a case
invented might also serve the purpose as well, only historical
ones are always to be preferred, because they bring the idea
which they illustrate nearer to practical life.

The second use supposes a more circumstantial relation of

events, but historical authenticity is again of secondary
importance, and in respect to this point the same is to be said
as in the first case.

For the third purpose the mere quotation of an undoubted fact

is generally sufficient. If it is asserted that fortified positions
may fulfil their object under certain conditions, it is only
necessary to mention the position of Bunzelwitz in support of
the assertion.

But if, through the narrative of a case in history, an abstract

truth is to be demonstrated, then everything in the case
bearing on the demonstration must be analysed in the most
searching and complete manner; it must, to a certain extent,
develop itself carefully before the eyes of the reader. The less
effectually this is done the weaker will be the proof, and the
more necessary it will be to supply the demonstrative proof
which is wanting in the single case by a number of cases,
because we have a right to suppose that the more minute

211
details which we are unable to give neutralise each other in
the effects in a certain number of cases.

If we want to show by example derived from experience that

cavalry are better placed behind than in a line with infantry;
that it is very hazardous without a decided preponderance of
numbers to attempt an enveloping movement, with widely
separated columns, either on a field of battle or in the theatre
of war – that is, either tactically or strategically – then in the
first of these cases it would not be sufficient to specify some
lost battles in which the cavalry was on the flanks and some
gained in which the cavalry was in rear of the infantry; and in
the latter of these cases it is not sufficient to refer to the
battles of Rivoli and Wagram, to the attack of the Austrians
on the theatre of war in Italy, in 1796, or of the French upon
the German theatre of war in the same year. The way in
which these orders of battle or plans of attack essentially
contributed to disastrous issues in those particular cases must
be shown by closely tracing out circumstances and
occurrences. Then it will appear how far such forms or
measures are to be condemned, a point which it is very
necessary to show, for a total condemnation would be
inconsistent with truth.

It has been already said that when a circumstantial detail of

facts is impossible, the demonstrative power which is
deficient may to a certain extent be supplied by the number of
cases quoted; but this is a very dangerous method of getting
out of the difficulty, and one which has been much abused.
Instead of one well-explained example, three or four are just
touched upon, and thus a show is made of strong evidence.
But there are matters where a whole dozen of cases brought
forward would prove nothing, if, for instance, they are facts

212
of frequent occurrence, and therefore a dozen other cases with
an opposite result might just as easily be brought forward. If
anyone will instance a dozen lost battles in which the side
beaten attacked in separate converging columns, we can
instance a dozen that have been gained in which the same
order was adopted. It is evident that in this way no result is to
be obtained.

Upon carefully considering these different points, it will be

seen how easily examples may be misapplied.

An occurrence which, instead of being carefully analysed in

all its parts, is superficially noticed, is like an object seen at a
great distance, presenting the same appearance on each side,
and in which the details of its parts cannot be distinguished.
Such examples have, in reality, served to support the most
contradictory opinions. To some Daun’s campaigns are
models of prudence and skill. To others, they are nothing but
examples of timidity and want of resolution. Bonaparte’s
passage across the Noric Alps in 1797 may be made to appear
the noblest resolution, but also as an act of sheer temerity. His
strategic defeat in 1812 may be represented as the
consequence either of an excess, or of a deficiency, of energy.
All these opinions have been broached, and it is easy to see
that they might very well arise, because each person takes a
different view of the connection of events. At the same time
these antagonistic opinions cannot be reconciled with each
other, and therefore one of the two must be wrong.

Much as we are obliged to the worthy Feuquières for the

numerous examples introduced in his memoirs – partly
because a number of historical incidents have thus been
preserved which might otherwise have been lost, and partly

213
because he was one of the first to bring theoretical, that is,
abstract, ideas into connection with the practical in war, in so
far that the cases brought forward may be regarded as
intended to exemplify and confirm what is theoretically
asserted – yet, in the opinion of an impartial reader, he will
hardly be allowed to have attained the object he proposed to
himself, that of proving theoretical principles by historical
examples. For although he sometimes relates occurrences
with great minuteness, still he falls short very often of
showing that the deductions drawn necessarily proceed from
the inner relations of these events.

Another evil which comes from the superficial notice of

historical events, is that some readers are either wholly
ignorant of the events, or cannot call them to remembrance
sufficiently to be able to grasp the author’s meaning, so that
there is no alternative between either accepting blindly what
is said, or remaining unconvinced.

It is extremely difficult to put together or unfold historical

events before the eyes of a reader in such a way as is
necessary, in order to be able to use them as proofs; for the
writer very often wants the means, and can neither afford the
time nor the requisite space; but we maintain that, when the
object is to establish a new or doubtful opinion, one single
example, thoroughly analysed, is far more instructive than ten
which are superficially treated. The great mischief of these
superficial representations is not that the writer puts his story
forward as a proof when it has only a false title, but that he
has not made himself properly acquainted with the subject,
and that from this sort of slovenly, shallow treatment of
history, a hundred false views and attempts at the construction
of theories arise, which would never have made their

214
appearance if the writer had looked upon it as his duty to
deduce from the strict connection of events everything new
which he brought to market, and sought to prove from history.

When we are convinced of these difficulties in the use of

historical examples, and at the same time of the necessity (of
making use of such examples), then we shall also come to the
conclusion that the latest military history is naturally the best
field from which to draw them, inasmuch as it alone is
sufficiently authentic and detailed.

In ancient times, circumstances connected with war, as well

as the method of carrying it on, were different; therefore its
events are of less use to us either theoretically or practically;
in addition to which, military history, like every other,
naturally loses in the course of time a number of small traits
and lineaments originally to be seen, loses in colour and life,
like a worn-out or darkened picture; so that perhaps at last
only the large masses and leading features remain, which thus
acquire undue proportions.

If we look at the present state of warfare, we should say that

the wars since that of the Austrian succession are almost the
only ones which, at least as far as armament, have still a
considerable similarity to the present, and which,
notwithstanding the many important changes which have
taken place both great and small, are still capable of affording
much instruction. It is quite otherwise with the War of the
Spanish succession, as the use of firearms had not then so far
advanced towards perfection, and cavalry still continued the
most important arm. The farther we go back, the less useful
becomes military history, as it gets so much the more meagre

215
and barren of detail. The most useless of all is that of the old
world.

But this usefulness is not altogether absolute, it relates only to

those subjects which depend on a knowledge of minute
details, or on those things in which the method of conducting
war has changed. Although we know very little about the
tactics in the battles between the Swiss and the Austrians, the
Burgundians and French, still we find in them unmistakable
evidence that they were the first in which the superiority of a
good infantry over the best cavalry was displayed. A general
glance at the time of the Condottieri teaches us how the whole
method of conducting war is dependent on the instrument
used; for at no period have the forces used in war had so
much the characteristics of a special instrument, and been a
class so totally distinct from the rest of the national
community. The memorable way in which the Romans in the
second Punic War attacked the Carthaginian possessions in
Spain and Africa, while Hannibal still maintained himself in
Italy, is a most instructive subject to study, as the general
relations of the states and armies concerned in the indirect act
of defence are sufficiently well known.

But the more things descend into particulars and deviate in

character from the most general relations, the less we can
look for examples and lessons of experience from very
remote periods, for we have neither the means of judging
properly of corresponding events, nor can we apply them to
our completely different method of war.

Unfortunately, however, it has always been the fashion with

historical writers to talk about ancient times. We shall not say
how far vanity and charlatanism may have had a share in this,

216
but in general we fail to discover any honest intention and
earnest endeavour to instruct and convince, and we can
therefore only look upon such quotations and references as
embellishments to fill up gaps and hide defects.

It would be an immense service to teach the art of war

entirely by historical examples, as Feuquières proposed to do;
but it would be full work for the whole life of a man, if we
reflect that he who undertakes it must first qualify himself for
the task by a long personal experience in actual war.

Whoever, stirred by ambition, undertakes such a task, let him

prepare himself for his pious undertaking as for a long
pilgrimage; let him give up his time, spare no sacrifice, fear
no temporal rank or power, and rise above all feelings of
personal vanity, of false shame, in order, according to the
French code, to speak the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing
but the Truth.

217
Book III

Of Strategy in General

218
Chapter i

Strategy

In the second chapter of the second book, strategy has been

defined as ‘the employment of the battle as the means towards
the attainment of the object of the war’. Properly speaking it
has to do with nothing but the battle, but its theory must
include in this consideration the instrument of this real
activity – the armed force – in itself and in its principal
relations, for the battle is fought by it, and shows its effects
upon it in turn. It must be well acquainted with the battle
itself as far as relates to its possible results, and those mental
and moral powers which are the most important in the use of
the same.

Strategy is the employment of the battle to gain the end of the

war; it must therefore give an aim to the whole military
action, which must be in accordance with the object of the
war; in other words, strategy forms the plan of the war; and to
this end it links together the series of acts which are to lead to
the final decision, that is to say, it makes the plans for the
separate campaigns and regulates the combats to be fought in
each. As these are all things which to a great extent can only
be determined on conjectures some of which turn out
incorrect, while a number of other arrangements pertaining to
details cannot be made at all beforehand, it follows, as a
matter of course, that strategy must go with the army to the
field in order to arrange particulars on the spot, and to make
the modifications in the general plan which incessantly
become necessary in war. Strategy can therefore never take its
hand from the work for a moment.

219
That this, however, has not always been the view taken is
evident from the former custom of keeping strategy in the
cabinet and not with the army, a thing only allowable if the
cabinet is so near to the army that it can be taken for the chief
headquarters of the army.

Theory will therefore attend on strategy in the determination

of its plans, or, as we may more properly say, it will throw a
light on things in themselves, and on their relations to each
other, and bring out prominently the little that there is of
principle or rule.

If we recall to mind from the first chapter how many things of

the highest importance war touches upon, we may conceive
that a consideration of all requires a rare grasp of mind.

A prince or general who knows exactly how to organise his

war according to his object and means, who does neither too
little nor too much, gives by that the greatest proof of his
genius. But the effects of this talent are exhibited not so much
by the invention of new modes of action, which might strike
the eye immediately, as in the successful final result of the
whole. It is the exact fulfilment of silent suppositions, it is the
noiseless harmony of the whole action which we should
admire, and which only makes itself known in the total result.

The inquirer who, tracing back from the final result, does not
perceive the signs of that harmony is one who is apt to seek
for genius where it is not, and where it cannot be found.

The means and forms which strategy uses are in fact so

extremely simple, so well known by their constant repetition
that it only appears ridiculous to sound common sense when it

220
hears critics so frequently speaking of them with high-flown
emphasis. Turning a flank, which has been done a thousand
times, is regarded here as a proof of the most brilliant genius,
there as a proof of the most profound penetration, indeed even
of the most comprehensive knowledge. Can there be in the
book-world more absurd productions?

It is still more ridiculous if, in addition to this, we reflect that

the same critic, in accordance with prevalent opinion,
excludes all moral forces from theory, and will not allow it to
be concerned with anything but the material forces, so that all
must be confined to a few mathematical relations of
equilibrium and preponderance, of time and space, and a few
lines and angles. If it were nothing more than this, then out of
such a miserable business there would not be a scientific
problem for even a schoolboy.

But let us admit: there is no question here about scientific

formulas and problems; the relations of material things are all
very simple; the right comprehension of the moral forces
which come into play is more difficult. Still, even in respect
to them, it is only in the highest branches of strategy that
moral complications and a great diversity of quantities and
relations are to be looked for, only at that point where strategy
borders on political science, or rather where the two become
one, and there, as we have before observed, they have more
influence on the ‘how much’ and ‘how little’ is to be done
than on the form of execution. Where the latter is the
principal question, as in the single acts both great and small in
war, the moral quantities are already reduced to a very small
number.

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Thus, then, in strategy everything is very simple, but not on
that account very easy. Once it is determined from the
relations of the state what should and may be done by war,
then the way to it is easy to find; but to follow that way
straightforward, to carry out the plan without being obliged to
deviate from it a thousand times by a thousand varying
influences, requires, besides great strength of character, great
clearness and steadiness of mind, and out of a thousand men
who are remarkable, some for mind, others for penetration,
others again for boldness or strength of will, perhaps not one
will combine in himself all those qualities which are required
to raise a man above mediocrity in the career of a general.

It may sound strange, but for all who know war in this respect
it is a fact beyond doubt, that much more strength of will is
required to make an important decision in strategy than in
tactics. In the latter we are hurried on with the moment; a
commander feels himself borne along in a strong current,
against which he durst not contend without the most
destructive consequences, he suppresses the rising fears, and
boldly ventures farther. In strategy, where all goes on at a
slower rate, there is more room allowed for our own
apprehensions and those of others, for objections and
remonstrances, consequently also for unseasonable regrets;
and as we do not see things in strategy as we do at least half
of them in tactics, with the living eye, but everything must be
conjectured and assumed, the convictions produced are less
powerful. The consequence is that most generals, when they
should act, remain stuck fast in bewildering doubts.

Now let us cast a glance at history – upon Frederick the

Great’s campaign of 1760, celebrated for its fine marches and
manoeuvres: a perfect masterpiece of strategic skill as critics

222
tell us. Is there really anything to drive us out of our wits with
admiration in the King’s first trying to turn Daun’s right
flank, then his left, then again his right, etc.? Are we to see
profound wisdom in this? No, that we cannot, if we are to
decide naturally and without affectation. What we rather
admire above all is the sagacity of the King in this respect,
that while pursuing a great object with very limited means, he
undertook nothing beyond his powers, and just enough to gain
his object. This sagacity of the general is visible not only in
this campaign, but throughout all the three wars of the Great
King!

To bring Silesia into the safe harbour of a well-guaranteed

peace was his object.

At the head of a small state, which was like other states in

most things, and only ahead of them in some branches of
administration; he could not be an Alexander, and, as Charles
XII, he would only, like him, have broken his head. We find,
therefore, in the whole of his conduct of war, a controlled
power, always well balanced, and never wanting in energy,
which in the most critical moments rises to astonishing deeds,
and the next moment oscillates quietly on again in
subordination to the play of the most subtle political
influences. Neither vanity, thirst for glory, nor vengeance
could make him deviate from his course, and this course
alone it is which brought him to a fortunate termination of the
contest.

These few words do but scant justice to this phase of the

genius of the great general; the eyes must be fixed carefully
on the extraordinary issue of the struggle, and the causes
which brought about that issue must be traced out, in order

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thoroughly to understand that nothing but the King’s
penetrating eye brought him safely out of all his dangers.

This is one feature in this great commander which we admire

in the campaign of 1760 – and in all others, but in this
especially – because in none did he keep the balance even
against such a superior hostile force, with such a small
sacrifice.

Another feature relates to the difficulty of execution. Marches

to turn a flank, right or left, are easily combined; the idea of
keeping a small force always well concentrated to be able to
meet the enemy on equal terms at any point, to multiply a
force by rapid movement, is as easily conceived as expressed;
the mere contrivance in these points, therefore, cannot excite
our admiration, and with respect to such simple things, there
is nothing further than to admit that they are simple.

But let a general try to do these things like Frederick the

Great. Long afterwards authors, who were eye-witnesses,
have spoken of the danger, indeed of the imprudence, of the
King’s camps, and doubtless, at the time he pitched them, the
danger appeared three times as great as afterwards.

It was the same with his marches, under the eyes, nay, often
under the cannon of the enemy’s army; these camps were
taken up, these marches made, not from want of prudence, but
because in Daun’s system, in his mode of drawing up his
army, in the responsibility which pressed upon him, and in his
character, Frederick found that security which justified his
camps and marches. But it required the King’s boldness,
determination, and strength of will to see things in this light,
and not to be led astray and intimidated by the danger of

224
which thirty years after people still wrote and spoke. Few
generals in this situation would have believed these simple
strategic means to be practicable.

Again, another difficulty in execution lay in this, that the

King’s army in this campaign was constantly in motion.
Twice it marched by wretched cross-roads, from the Elbe into
Silesia, in rear of Daun and pursued by Lascy (beginning of
July, beginning of August). It required to be always ready for
battle, and its marches had to be organised with a degree of
skill which necessarily called forth a proportionate amount of
exertion. Although attended and delayed by thousands of
waggons, still its subsistence was extremely difficult. In
Silesia, for eight days before the battle of Liegnitz, it had
constantly to march, defiling alternately right and left in front
of the enemy: this costs great fatigue, and entails great
privations.

Is it to be supposed that all this could have been done without

producing great friction in this machine? Can the mind of a
commander elaborate such movements with the same ease as
the hand of a land surveyor uses the astrolabe? Does not the
sight of the sufferings of their hungry, thirsty comrades pierce
the hearts of the commander and his generals a thousand
times? Must not the murmurs and doubts which these cause
reach his ear? Has an ordinary man the courage to demand
such sacrifices, and would not such efforts most certainly
demoralise the army, break up the bands of discipline, and, in
short, undermine its military virtue, if firm reliance on the
greatness and infallibility of the commander did not
compensate for all? Here, therefore, it is that we should pay
respect; it is these miracles of execution which we should
admire. But it is impossible to realise all this in its full force

225
without a foretaste of it by experience. He who only knows
war from books or the drill-ground cannot realise the whole
effect of this counterpoise in action; we beg him, therefore, to
accept from us on faith and trust all that he is unable to supply
from any personal experience of his own.

This illustration is intended to give more clearness to the

course of our ideas, and in closing this chapter we will only
briefly observe that in our exposition of strategy we shall
describe those separate subjects which appear to us the most
important, whether of a moral or material nature; then
proceed from the simple to the complex, and conclude with
the inner connection of the whole act of war, in other words,
with the plan for a war or campaign.

Observation

In an earlier manuscript of the second book are the following

passages endorsed by the author himself ‘to be used for the
first Chapter of the second Book’: the projected revision of
that chapter not having been made, the passages referred to
are introduced here in full.

By the mere assemblage of armed forces at a particular point,

a battle there becomes possible, but does not always take
place. Is that possibility now to be regarded as a reality and
therefore an effective thing? Certainly, it is so by its results,
and these effects, whatever they may be, can never fail.

1. Possible combats are on account of their results to be

looked upon as real ones

226
If a detachment is sent away to cut off the retreat of a flying
enemy, and the enemy surrenders in consequence without
further resistance, still it is through the combat which is
offered to him by this detachment sent after him that he is
brought to his decision.

If a part of our army occupies an enemy’s province which

was undefended, and thus deprives the enemy of very
considerable means of keeping up the strength of his army, it
is entirely through the battle which our detached body gives
the enemy to expect, in case he seeks to recover the lost
province, that we remain in possession of the same.

In both cases, therefore, the mere possibility of a battle has

produced results, and is therefore to be classed amongst actual
events. Suppose that in these cases the enemy has opposed
our troops with others superior in force, and thus forced ours
to give up their object without a combat, then certainly our
plan has failed, but the battle which we offered at (either of)
these points has not on that account been without effect, for it
attracted the enemy’s forces to that point. And in case our
whole undertaking has done us harm, it cannot be said that
these positions, these possible battles, have been attended
with no results; their effects, then, are similar to those of a
lost battle.

In this manner we see that the destruction of the enemy’s

military forces, the overthrow of the enemy’s power, is only
to be done through the effect of a battle, whether it be that it
actually takes place, or that it is merely offered, and not
accepted.

2. Twofold object of the combat

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But these effects are of two kinds, direct and indirect; they are
of the latter, if other things intrude themselves and become
the object of the combat – things which cannot be regarded as
the destruction of enemy’s force, but only leading up to it,
certainly by a circuitous road, but with so much the greater
effect. The possession of provinces, towns, fortresses, roads,
bridges, magazines, etc., may be the immediate object of a
battle, but never the ultimate one. Things of this description
can never be looked upon otherwise than as means of gaining
greater superiority, so as at last to offer battle to the enemy in
such a way that it will be impossible for him to accept it.
Therefore all these things must only be regarded as
intermediate links, steps, as it were, leading up to the
effectual principle, but never as that principle itself.

3. Examples

In 1814, by the capture of Bonaparte’s capital the object of

the war was attained. The political divisions which had their
roots in Paris came into active operation, and an enormous
split left the power of the Emperor to collapse of itself.
Nevertheless the point of view from which we must look at
all this is, that through these causes the forces and defensive
means of Bonaparte were suddenly very much diminished,
the superiority of the allies, therefore, just in the same
measure increased, and any further resistance then became
impossible. It was this impossibility which produced the
peace with France. If we suppose the forces of the allies at
that moment diminished to a like extent through external
causes; if the superiority vanishes, then at the same time
vanishes also all the effect and importance of the taking of
Paris.

228
We have gone through this chain of argument in order to
show that this is the natural and only true view of the thing
from which it derives its importance. It leads always back to
the question, What at any given moment of the war or
campaign will be the probable result of the great or small
combats which the two sides might offer to each other? In the
consideration of a plan for a campaign, this question only is
decisive as to the measures which are to be taken all through
from the very commencement.

4. When this view is not taken, then a false value is given to

other things

If we do not accustom ourselves to look upon war, and the

single campaigns in a war, as a chain which is all composed
of battles strung together, one of which always brings on
another; if we adopt the idea that the taking of a certain
geographical point, the occupation of an undefended
province, is in itself anything; then we are very likely to
regard it as an acquisition which we may retain; and if we
look at it so, and not as a term in the whole series of events,
we do not ask ourselves whether this possession may not lead
to greater disadvantages hereafter. How often we find this
mistake recurring in military history.

We might say that, just as in commerce the merchant cannot

set apart and place in security gains from one single
transaction by itself, so in war a single advantage cannot be
separated from the result of the whole. Just as the former must
always operate with the whole bulk of his means, just so in
war, only the sum total will decide on the advantage or
disadvantage of each item.

229
If the mind’s eye is always directed upon the series of
combats, so far as they can be seen beforehand, then it is
always looking in the right direction, and thereby the motion
of the force acquires that rapidity, that is to say, willing and
doing acquire that energy which is suitable to the matter, and
which is not to be thwarted or turned aside by extraneous
influences.

230
Chapter ii

Elements of Strategy

The causes which condition the use of the combat in strategy

may be easily divided into elements of different kinds, such
as the moral, physical, mathematical, geographical, and
statistical elements.

The first class includes all that can be called forth by moral
qualities and effects; to the second belong the whole mass of
the military force, its organisation, the proportion of the three
arms, etc., etc.; to the third, the angle of the lines of operation,
the concentric and eccentric movements in as far as their
geometrical nature has any value in the calculation; to the
fourth, the influences of country, such as commanding points,
hills, rivers, woods, roads, etc., etc.; lastly, to the fifth, all the
means of supply. The separation of these things once for all in
the mind does good in giving clearness and helping us to
estimate at once, at a higher or lower value, the different
classes as we pass onwards. For, in considering them
separately, many lose of themselves their borrowed
importance; one feels, for instance, quite plainly that the
value of a base of operations, even if we look at nothing in it
but its relative position to the line of operations, depends
much less in that simple form on the geometrical element of
the angle which they form with one another, than on the
nature of the roads and the country through which they pass.

But to treat upon strategy according to these elements would

be the most unfortunate idea that could be conceived, for
these elements are generally manifold, and intimately

231
connected with each other in every single operation of war.
We should lose ourselves in the most soulless analysis, and as
if in a horrid dream, we should be for ever trying in vain to
build up an arch to connect this base of abstractions with facts
belonging to the real world. Heaven preserve every theorist
from such an undertaking! We shall keep to the world of
things in their totality, and not pursue our analysis further
than is necessary from time to time to give distinctness to the
idea which we wish to impart, and which has come to us, not
by a speculative investigation, but through the impression
made by the realities of war in their entirety.

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Chapter iii

Moral Forces

We must return again to this subject, which is touched upon

in the third chapter of the second book (p. 101), because the
moral forces are amongst the most important subjects in war.
They form the spirit which permeates the whole being of war.
These forces fasten themselves soonest and with the greatest
affinity on to the will which puts in motion and guides the
whole mass of powers, uniting with it as it were in one
stream, because this is a moral force itself. Unfortunately they
will escape from all book-analysis, for they will neither be
brought into numbers nor into classes, and require to be both
seen and felt.

The spirit and other moral qualities which animate an army, a

general, or governments, public opinion in provinces in which
a war is raging, the moral effect of a victory or of a defeat are
things which in themselves vary very much in their nature,
and which also, according as they stand with regard to our
object and our relations, may have an influence in different
ways.

Although little or nothing can be said about these things in

books, still they belong to the theory of the art of war, as
much as everything else which constitutes war. For I must
here once more repeat that it is a miserable philosophy if,
according to the old plan, we establish rules and principles
wholly regardless of all moral forces, and then, as soon as
these forces make their appearance, we begin to count
exceptions which we thereby establish as it were

233
theoretically, that is, make into rules; or if we resort to an
appeal to genius, which is above all rules, thus giving out by
implication, not only that rules were only made for fools, but
also that they themselves are no better than folly.

Even if the theory of the art of war does no more in reality

than recall these things to remembrance, showing the
necessity of allowing to the moral forces their full value, and
of always taking them into consideration, by so doing it
extends its borders over the region of immaterial forces, and
by establishing that point of view, condemns beforehand
everyone who would endeavour to justify himself before its
judgement seat by the mere physical relations of forces.

Further out of regard to all other so-called rules, theory

cannot banish the moral forces beyond its frontier, because
the effects of the physical forces and the moral are completely
fused and are not to be decomposed like a metal alloy by a
chemical process. In every rule relating to the physical forces,
theory must present to the mind at the same time the share
which the moral powers will have in it, if it would not be led
to categorical propositions, at one time too timid and
contracted, at another too dogmatical and wide. Even the
most matter-of-fact theories have, without knowing it, strayed
over into this moral kingdom; for, as an example, the effects
of a victory cannot in any way be explained without taking
into consideration the moral impressions. And therefore the
most of the subjects which we shall go through in this book
are composed half of physical, half of moral causes and
effects, and we might say the physical are almost no more
than the wooden handle, whilst the moral are the noble metal,
the real bright-polished weapon.

234
The value of the moral powers, and their frequently incredible
influence, are best exemplified by history, and this is the most
generous and the purest nourishment which the mind of the
general can extract from it. At the same time it is to be
observed, that it is less demonstrations, critical examinations,
and learned treatises, than sentiments, general impressions,
and single flashing sparks of truth, which yield the seeds of
knowledge that are to fertilise the mind.

We might go through the most important moral phenomena in

war, and with all the care of a diligent professor try what we
could impart about each, either good or bad. But as in such a
method one slides too much into the commonplace and trite,
whilst real mind quickly makes its escape in analysis, the end
is that one gets imperceptibly to the relation of things which
everybody knows. We prefer, therefore, to remain here more
than usually incomplete and rhapsodical, content to have
drawn attention to the importance of the subject in a general
way, and to have pointed out the spirit in which the views
given in this book have been conceived.

235
Chapter iv

The Chief Moral Powers

These are the talents of the commander; the military virtue of

the army; its national feeling. Which of these is the most
important no one can tell in a general way, for it is very
difficult to say anything in general of their strength, and still
more difficult to compare the strength of one with that of
another. The best plan is not to undervalue any of them, a
fault which human judgement is prone to, sometimes on one
side, sometimes on another, in its whimsical oscillations. It is
better to satisfy ourselves of the undeniable efficacy of these
three things by sufficient evidence from history.

It is true, however, that in modern times the armies of

European states have arrived very much at a par as regards
discipline and fitness for service, and that the conduct of war
has – as philosophers would say – naturally developed itself,
thereby become a method, common as it were to all armies,
so that even from commanders there is nothing further to be
expected in the way of application of special means of art, in
the limited sense (such as Frederick II’s oblique order). Hence
it cannot be denied that, as matters now stand, greater scope is
afforded for the influence of national spirit and habituation of
an army to war. A long peace may again alter all this.

The national spirit of an army (enthusiasm, fanatical zeal,

faith, opinion) displays itself most in mountain warfare,
where everyone down to the common soldier is left to
himself. On this account, a mountainous country is the best
campaigning ground for popular levies.

236
Expertness of an army through training, and that
well-tempered courage which holds the ranks together as if
they had been cast in a mould, show their superiority in an
open country.

The talent of a general has most room to display itself in a

closely intersected, undulating country. In mountains he has
too little command over the separate parts, and the direction
of all is beyond his powers; in open plains it is simple and
does not exceed those powers.

According to these undeniable elective affinities, plans should

be regulated.

237
Chapter v

Military Virtue of an Army

This is distinguished from mere bravery, and still more from

enthusiasm for the business of war. The first is certainly a
necessary constituent part of it, but in the same way as
bravery, which is a natural gift in some men, may arise in a
soldier as a part of an army from habit and custom, so with
him it must also have a different direction from that which it
has with others. It must lose that impulse to unbridled activity
and exercise of force which is its characteristic in the
individual, and submit itself to demands of a higher kind, to
obedience, order, rule, and method. Enthusiasm for the
profession gives life and greater fire to the military virtue of
an army, but does not necessarily constitute a part of it.

War is a special business, and however general its relations

may be, and even if all the male population of a country,
capable of bearing arms, exercise this calling, still it always
continues to be different and separate from the other pursuits
which occupy the life of man. To be imbued with a sense of
the spirit and nature of this business, to make use of, to rouse,
to assimilate into the system the powers which should be
active in it, to penetrate completely into the nature of the
business with the understanding, through exercise to gain
confidence and expertness in it, to be completely given up to
it, to pass out of the man into the part which it is assigned to
us to play in war, that is the military virtue of an army in the
individual.

238
However much pains may be taken to combine the soldier and
the citizen in one and the same individual, whatever may be
done to nationalise wars, and however much we may imagine
times have changed since the days of the old Condottieri,
never will it be possible to do away with the individuality of
the business; and if that cannot be done, then those who
belong to it, as long as they belong to it, will always look
upon themselves as a kind of guild, in the regulations, laws
and customs in which the ‘spirit of war’ by preference finds
its expression. And so it is in fact. Even with the most decided
inclination to look at war from the highest point of view, it
would be very wrong to look down upon this corporate spirit
(esprit de corps) which may and should exist more or less in
every army. This corporate spirit forms the bond of union
between the natural forces which are active in that which we
have called military virtue. The crystals of military virtue
have a greater affinity for the spirit of a corporate body than
for anything else.

An army which preserves its usual formations under the

heaviest fire, which is never shaken by imaginary fears, and
in the face of real danger disputes the ground inch by inch,
which, proud in the feeling of its victories, never loses its
sense of obedience, its respect for and confidence in its
leaders, even under the depressing effects of defeat; an army
with all its physical powers, inured to privations and fatigue
by exercise, like the muscles of an athlete; an army which
looks upon all its toils as the means to victory, not as a curse
which hovers over its standards, and which is always
reminded of its duties and virtues by the short catechism of
one idea, namely the honour of its arms; Such an army is
imbued with the true military spirit.

239
Soldiers may fight bravely like the Vendéans, and do great
things like the Swiss, the Americans, or Spaniards, without
displaying this military virtue. A commander may also be
successful at the head of standing armies, like Eugene and
Marlborough, without enjoying the benefit of its assistance;
we must not, therefore, say that a successful war without it
cannot be imagined; and we draw especial attention to that
point, in order the more to individualise the conception which
is here brought forward, that the idea may not dissolve into a
generalisation, and that it may not be thought that military
virtue is in the end everything. It is not so. Military virtue in
an army is a definite moral power which may be supposed
wanting, and the influence of which may therefore be
estimated – like any instrument the power of which may be
calculated.

Having thus characterised it, we proceed to consider what can

be predicated of its influence, and what are the means of
gaining its assistance.

Military virtue is for the parts, what the genius of the

commander is for the whole. The general can only guide the
whole, not each separate part, and where he cannot guide the
part, there military virtue must be its leader. A general is
chosen by the reputation of his superior talents, the chief
leaders of large masses after careful probation; but this
probation diminishes as we descend the scale of rank, and in
just the same measure we may reckon less and less upon
individual talents; but what is wanting in this respect military
virtue should supply. The natural qualities of a warlike people
play just this part: bravery, aptitude, powers of endurance and
enthusiasm.

240
These properties may therefore supply the place of military
virtue, and vice versa, from which the following may be
deduced:

1. Military virtue is a quality of standing armies only, but they

require it the most. In national risings its place is supplied by
natural qualities, which develop themselves there more
rapidly.

2. Standing armies opposed to standing armies, can more

easily dispense with it, than a standing army opposed to a
national insurrection, for in that case, the troops are more
scattered, and the divisions left more to themselves. But
where an army can be kept concentrated, the genius of the
general takes a greater place, and supplies what is wanting in
the spirit of the army. Therefore generally military virtue
becomes more necessary the more the theatre of operations
and other circumstances make the war complicated, and cause
the forces to be scattered.

From these truths the only lesson to be derived is this, that if

an army is deficient in this quality, every endeavour should be
made to simplify the operations of the war as much as
possible, or to introduce double efficiency in the organisation
of the army in some other respect, and not to expect from the
mere name of a standing army, that which only the veritable
thing itself can give.

The military virtue of an army is, therefore, one of the most

important moral powers in war, and where it is wanting, we
either see its place supplied by one of the others, such as the
great superiority of generalship or popular enthusiasm, or we
find the results not commensurate with the exertions made.

241
How much that is great, this spirit, this sterling worth of an
army, this refining of ore into the polished metal, has already
done, we see in the history of the Macedonians under
Alexander, the Roman legions under Caesar, the Spanish
infantry under Alexander Farnese, the Swedes under
Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII, the Prussians under
Frederick the Great, and the French under Bonaparte. We
must purposely shut our eyes against all historical proof, if we
do not admit, that the astonishing successes of these generals
and their greatness in situations of extreme difficulty, were
only possible with armies possessing this virtue.

This spirit can only be generated from two sources, and only
by these two conjointly; the first is a succession of campaigns
and great victories; the other is, an activity of the army carried
sometimes to the highest pitch. Only by these, does the
soldier learn to know his powers. The more a general is in the
habit of demanding from his troops, the surer he will be that
his demands will be answered. The soldier is as proud of
overcoming toil as he is of surmounting danger. Therefore it
is only in the soil of incessant activity and exertion that the
germ will thrive, but also only in the sunshine of victory.
Once it becomes a strong tree, it will stand against the fiercest
storms of misfortune and defeat, and even against the indolent
inactivity of peace, at least for a time. It can therefore only be
created in war, and under great generals, but no doubt it may
last at least for several generations, even under generals of
moderate capacity, and through considerable periods of peace.

With this generous and noble spirit of union in a line of

veteran troops, covered with scars and thoroughly inured to
war, we must not compare the self-esteem and vanity of a
standing army, held together merely by the glue of

242
service-regulations and a drill book; a certain plodding
earnestness and strict discipline may keep up military virtue
for a long time, but can never create it; these things therefore
have a certain value, but must not be overrated. Order,
smartness, good will, also a certain degree of pride and high
feeling are qualities of an army formed in time of peace
which are to be prized but cannot stand alone. The whole
retains the whole, and as with glass too quickly cooled, a
single crack breaks the whole mass. Above all, the highest
spirit in the world changes only too easily at the first check
into depression, and one might say into a kind of
rhodomontade of alarm, the French sauve qui peut. Such an
army can only achieve something through its leader, never by
itself. It must be led with double caution, until by degrees, in
victory and hardships, the strength grows into the full armour.
Beware then of confusing the spirit of an army with its
temper.

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Chapter vi

Boldness

The place and part which boldness takes in the dynamic

system of powers, where it stands opposed to foresight and
prudence, has been stated in the chapter on the certainty of the
result in order thereby to show, that theory has no right to
restrict it by virtue of its legislative power.

But this noble impulse, with which the human soul raises
itself above the most formidable dangers, is to be regarded as
an active principle peculiarly belonging to war. In fact, in
what branch of human activity should boldness have a right of
citizenship if not in war?

From the transport-driver and the drummer up to the general,

it is the noblest of virtues, the true steel which gives the
weapon its edge and brilliancy.

Let us admit in fact it has in war even its own prerogatives.

Over and above the result of the calculation of space, time,
and quantity, we must allow a certain percentage which
boldness derives from the weakness of others, whenever it
gains the mastery. It is therefore, virtually, a creative power.
This is not difficult to demonstrate philosophically. As often
as boldness encounters hesitation, the probability of the result
is of necessity in its favour, because the very state of
hesitation implies a loss of equilibrium already. It is only
when it encounters cautious foresight – which we may say is
just as bold, at all events just as strong and powerful as itself
– that it is at a disadvantage; such cases, however, rarely

244
occur. Out of the whole multitude of prudent men in the
world, the great majority are so from timidity.

Amongst large masses, boldness is a force, the special

cultivation of which can never be to the detriment of other
forces, because the great mass is bound to be a higher will by
the framework and joints of the order of battle and of the
service, and therefore is guided by an intelligent power which
is extraneous. Boldness is therefore here only like a spring
held down until its action is required.

The higher the rank the more necessary it is that boldness

should be accompanied by a reflective mind, that it may not
be a mere blind outburst of passion to no purpose; for with
increase of rank it becomes always less a matter of
self-sacrifice and more a matter of the preservation of others,
and the good of the whole. Where regulations of the service,
as a kind of second nature, prescribe for the masses, reflection
must be the guide of the general, and in his case individual
boldness in action may easily become a fault. Still, at the
same time, it is a fine failing, and must not be looked at in the
same light as any other. Happy the army in which an untimely
boldness frequently manifests itself; it is an exuberant growth
which shows a rich soil. Even foolhardiness, that is boldness
without an object, is not to be despised; in point of fact it is
the same energy of feeling, only exercised as a kind of
passion without any co-operation of the intelligent faculties. It
is only when it strikes at the root of obedience, when it treats
with contempt the orders of superior authority, that it must be
repressed as a dangerous evil, not on its own account but on
account of the act of disobedience, for there is nothing in war
which is of greater importance than obedience.

245
The reader will readily agree with us that, supposing an equal
degree of discernment to be forthcoming in a certain number
of cases, a thousand times as many of them will end in
disaster through over-anxiety as through boldness.

One would suppose it natural that the interposition of a

reasonable object should stimulate boldness, and therefore
lessen its intrinsic merit, and yet the reverse is the case in
reality.

The intervention of lucid thought or the general supremacy of

mind deprives the emotional forces of a great part of their
power. On that account boldness becomes of rarer occurrence
the higher we ascend the scale of rank, for whether the
discernment and the understanding do or do not increase with
these ranks still the commander, in their several stations as
they rise, are pressed upon more and more severely by
objective things, by relations and claims from without, so that
they become the more perplexed the lower the degree of their
individual intelligence. This so far as regards war is the chief
foundation of the truth of the French proverb:

Tel brille au second qui s’eclipse au premier.

Almost all the generals who are represented in history as

merely having attained to mediocrity, and as wanting in
decision when in supreme command, are men celebrated in
their antecedent career for their boldness and decision.

In those motives to bold action which arise from the pressure

of necessity we must make a distinction. Necessity has its
degrees of intensity. If it lies near at hand, if the person acting
is in the pursuit of his object driven into great dangers in

246
order to escape others equally great, then we can only admire
his resolution, which still has also its value. If a young man to
show his skill in horsemanship leaps across a deep cleft, then
he is bold; if he makes the same leap pursued by a troop of
head-chopping Janissaries he is only resolute. But the farther
off the necessity from the point of action, the greater the
number of relations intervening which the mind has to
traverse in order to realise them, by so much the less does
necessity take from boldness in action. If Frederick the Great,
in the year 1756, saw that war was inevitable, and that he
could only escape destruction by being beforehand with his
enemies, it became necessary for him to commence the war
himself, but at the same time it was certainly very bold: for
few men in his position would have made up their minds to
do so.

Although strategy is only the province of generals-in-chief or

commanders in the higher positions, still boldness in all the
other branches of an army is as little a matter of indifference
to it as their other military virtues. With an army belonging to
a bold race, and in which the spirit of boldness has been
always nourished, very different things may be undertaken
than with one in which this virtue is unknown; for that reason
we have considered it in connection with an army. But our
subject is specially the boldness of the general, and yet we
have not much to say about it after having described this
military virtue in a general way to the best of our ability.

The higher we rise in a position of command, the more of the

mind, understanding, and penetration predominate in activity,
the more therefore is boldness, which is a property of the
feelings kept in subjection, and for that reason we find it so
rarely in the highest positions. But then, so much the more

247
should it be admired. Boldness, directed by an overruling
intelligence, is the stamp of the hero: this boldness does not
consist in venturing directly against the nature of things, in a
downright contempt of the laws of probability, but, if a choice
is once made, in the rigorous adherence to that higher
calculation which genius, the tact of judgement, has gone
over with the speed of lightning. The more boldness lends
wings to the mind and the discernment, so much the farther
they will reach in their flight, so much the more
comprehensive will be the view, the more exact the result, but
certainly always only in the sense that with greater objects
greater dangers are connected. The ordinary man, not to speak
of the weak and irresolute, arrives at an exact result so far as
such is possible without ocular demonstration, at most after
diligent reflection in his chamber, at a distance from danger
and responsibility. Let danger and responsibility draw close
round him in every direction, then he loses the power of
comprehensive vision, and if he retains this in any measure by
the influence of others, still he will lose his power of decision,
because in that point no one can help him. We think then that
it is impossible to imagine a distinguished general without
boldness, that is to say, that no man can become one who is
not born with this power of the soul, and we therefore look
upon it as the first requisite for such a career. How much of
this inborn power, developed and moderated through
education and the circumstances of life, is left when the man
has attained a high position, is the second question. The
greater this power still is, the stronger will genius be on the
wing, the higher will be its flight. The risks become always
greater, but the purpose grows with them. Whether its lines
proceed out of and get their direction from a distant necessity,
or whether they converge to the keystone of a building which
ambition has planned, whether Frederick or Alexander acts, is

248
much the same as regards the critical view. If the one excites
the imagination more because it is bolder, the other pleases
the understanding most, because it has in it more absolute
necessity.

We have still to advert to one very important circumstance.

The spirit of boldness can exist in an army, either because it is

in the people, or because it has been generated in a successful
war conducted by able generals. In the latter case it must of
course be dispensed with at the commencement.

Now in our days there is hardly any other means of educating

the spirit of a people in this respect, except by war, and that
too under bold generals. By it alone can that effeminacy of
feeling be counteracted, that propensity to seek for the
enjoyment of comfort, which cause degeneracy in a people
rising in prosperity and immersed in an extremely busy
commerce.

A nation can hope to have a strong position in the political

world only if its character and practice in actual war mutually
support each other in constant reciprocal action.

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Chapter vii

Perseverance

The reader expects to hear of angles and lines, and finds,

instead of these citizens of the scientific world, only people
out of common life, such as he meets with every day in the
street. And yet the author cannot make up his mind to become
a hair’s breadth more mathematical than the subject seems to
him to require, and he is not alarmed at the surprise which the
reader may show.

In war more than anywhere else in the world things happen

differently to what we had expected, and look differently
when near, to what they did at a distance. With what serenity
the architect can watch his work gradually rising and growing
into his plan. The doctor, although much more at the mercy of
mysterious agencies and chances than the architect, still
knows enough of the forms and effects of his means. In war,
on the other hand, the commander of an immense whole finds
himself in a constant whirlpool of false and true information,
of mistakes committed through fear, through negligence,
through precipitation, of contraventions of his authority,
either from mistaken or correct motives, from ill will, true or
false sense of duty, indolence or exhaustion, of accidents
which no mortal could have foreseen. In short, he is the
victim of a hundred thousand impressions, of which the most
have an intimidating, the fewest an encouraging tendency. By
long experience in war, the tact is acquired of readily
appreciating the value of these incidents; high courage and
stability of character stand proof against them, as the rock
resists the beating of the waves. He who would yield to these

250
impressions would never carry out an undertaking, and on
that account perseverance in the proposed object, as long as
there is no decided reason against it, is a most necessary
counterpoise. Further, there is hardly any celebrated
enterprise in war which was not achieved by endless exertion,
pains, and privations; and as here the weakness of the
physical and moral man is ever disposed to yield, only an
immense force of will, which manifests itself in perseverance
admired by present and future generations, can conduct us to
our goal.

251
Chapter viii

Superiority of Numbers

This is in tactics, as well as in strategy, the most general

principle of victory, and shall be examined by us first in its
generality, for which we may be permitted the following
exposition:

Strategy fixes the point where, the time when, and the
numerical force with which the battle is to be fought. By this
triple determination it has therefore a very essential influence
on the issue of the combat. If tactics has fought the battle, if
the result is over, let it be victory or defeat, strategy makes
such use of it as can be made in accordance with the great
object of the war. This object is naturally often a very distant
one, seldom does it lie quite close at hand. A series of other
objects subordinate themselves to it as means. These objects,
which are at the same time means to a higher purpose, may be
practically of various kinds; even the ultimate aim of the
whole war may be a different one in every case. We shall
make ourselves acquainted with these things according as we
come to know the separate objects which they come in
contact with; and it is not our intention here to embrace the
whole subject by a complete enumeration of them, even if
that were possible. We therefore let the employment of the
battle stand over for the present.

Even those things through which strategy has an influence on

the issue of the combat, inasmuch as it establishes the same,
to a certain extent decrees them, are not so simple that they
can be embraced in one single view. For as strategy appoints

252
time, place and force, it can do so in practice in many ways,
each of which influences in a different manner the result of
the combat as well as its consequences. Therefore we shall
only get acquainted with this also by degrees, that is, through
the subjects which more closely determine the application. If
we strip the combat of all modifications which it may undergo
according to its immediate purpose and the circumstances
from which it proceeds, lastly if we set aside the valour of the
troops, because that is a given quantity, then there remains
only the bare conception of the combat, that is a combat
without form, in which we distinguish nothing but the number
of the combatants.

This number will therefore determine victory. Now from the

number of things above deducted to get to this point, it is
shown that the superiority in numbers in a battle is only one
of the factors employed to produce victory: that therefore so
far from having with the superiority in number obtained all,
or even only the principal thing, we have perhaps got very
little by it, according as the other circumstances which
co-operate happen to vary.

But this superiority has degrees, it may be imagined as

twofold, threefold or fourfold, and everyone sees, that by
increasing this way, it must (at last) overpower everything
else.

In such an aspect we grant, that the superiority in numbers is

the most important factor in the result of a combat, only it
must be sufficiently great to be a counterpoise to all these
other co-operating circumstances. The direct result of this is,
that the greatest possible number of troops should be brought
into action at the decisive point.

253
Whether the troops thus brought are sufficient or not, we have
then done in this respect all that our means allowed. This is
the first principle in strategy, therefore in general as now
stated, it is just as well suited for Greeks and Persians, or for
Englishmen and Mahrattas, as for French and Germans. But
we shall take a glance at our relations in Europe, as respects
war, in order to arrive at some more definite idea on this
subject.

Here we find armies much more alike in equipment,

organisation, and practical skill of every kind. There only
remains a difference in the military virtue of armies, and in
the talent of generals which may fluctuate with time from side
to side. If we go through the military history of modern
Europe, we find no example of a Marathon.

Frederick the Great beat 80,000 Austrians at Leuthen with

about 30,000 men, and at Rosbach with 25,000 some 50,000
allies; these are however the only instances of victories
gained against an enemy double, or more than double in
numbers. Charles XII, in the battle of Narva, we cannot well
quote, for the Russians were at that time hardly to be regarded
as Europeans, also the principal circumstances, even of the
battle, are too little known. Bonaparte had at Dresden 120,000
against 220,000, therefore not the double. At Kollin,
Frederick the Great did not succeed, with 30,000 against
50,000 Austrians, neither did Bonaparte in the desperate
battle of Leipsic, where he was 160,000 strong, against
280,000.

From this we may infer, that it is very difficult in the present

state of Europe, for the most talented general to gain a victory
over an enemy double his strength. Now if we see double

254
numbers prove such a weight in the scale against the greatest
generals, we may be sure, that in ordinary cases, in small as
well as great combats, an important superiority of numbers,
but which need not be over two to one, will be sufficient to
ensure the victory, however disadvantageous other
circumstances may be. Certainly we may imagine a defile
which even tenfold would not suffice to force, but in such a
case it can be no question of a battle at all.

We think, therefore, that under our conditions, as well as in

all similar ones, the superiority at the decisive point is a
matter of capital importance, and that this subject, in the
generality of cases, is decidedly the most important of all. The
strength at the decisive point depends on the absolute strength
of the army, and on skill in making use of it.

The first rule is therefore to enter the field with an army as

strong as possible. This sounds very like a commonplace, but
still it is really not so.

In order to show that for a long time the strength of forces

was by no means regarded as a chief point, we need only
observe that in most, and even in the most detailed histories
of the wars in the eighteenth century, the strength of the
armies is either not given at all, or only incidentally, and in no
case is any special value laid upon it. Tempelhof in his history
of the Seven Years’ War is the earliest writer who gives it
regularly, but at the same time he does it only very
superficially.

Even Massenbach, in his manifold critical observations on the

Prussian campaigns of 1793–4 in the Vosges, talks a great

255
deal about hills and valleys, roads and footpaths, but does not
say a syllable about mutual strength.

Another proof lies in a wonderful notion which haunted the

heads of many critical historians, according to which there
was a certain size of an army which was the best, a normal
strength, beyond which the forces in excess were burdensome
rather than serviceable.

Lastly, there are a number of instances to be found, in which

all the available forces were not really brought into the battle,
or into the war, because the superiority of numbers was not
considered to have that importance which in the nature of
things belongs to it.

If we are thoroughly penetrated with the conviction that with

a considerable superiority of numbers everything possible is
to be effected, then it cannot fail that this clear conviction
reacts in the preparations for the war, so as to make us appear
in the field with as many troops as possible, and either to give
us ourselves the superiority, or at least to guard against the
enemy obtaining it. So much for what concerns the absolute
force with which the war is to be conducted.

The measure of this absolute force is determined by the

government; and although with this determination the real
action of war commences, and it forms an essential part of the
strategy of the war, still in most cases the general who is to
command these forces in the war must regard their absolute
strength as a given quantity, whether it be that he has had no
voice in fixing it, or that circumstances prevented a sufficient
expansion being given to it.

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There remains nothing, therefore, where an absolute
superiority is not attainable, but to produce a relative one at
the decisive point, by making skilful use of what we have.

The calculation of space and time appears as the most

essential thing to this end – and this has caused that subject to
be regarded as one which embraces nearly the whole art of
using military forces. Indeed, some have gone so far as to
ascribe to great strategists and tacticians a mental organ
peculiarly adapted to this point.

But the calculation of time and space, although it lies

universally at the foundation of strategy, and is to a certain
extent its daily bread, is still neither the most difficult, nor the
most decisive one.

If we take an unprejudiced glance at military history, we shall

find that the instances in which mistakes in such a calculation
have proved the cause of serious losses are very rare, at least
in strategy. But if the conception of a skilful combination of
time and space is fully to account for every instance of a
resolute and active commander beating several separate
opponents with one and the same army (Frederick the Great,
Bonaparte), then we perplex ourselves unnecessarily with
conventional language. For the sake of clearness and the
profitable use of conceptions, it is necessary that things
should always be called by their right names.

The right appreciation of their opponents (Daun,

Schwartzenberg), the audacity to leave for a short space of
time a small force only before them, energy in forced
marches, boldness in sudden attacks, the intensified activity
which great souls acquire in the moment of danger, these are

257
the grounds of such victories; and what have these to do with
the ability to make an exact calculation of two such simple
things as time and space?

But even this ricocheting play of forces, ‘when the victories at

Rosbach and Montmirail give the impulse to victories at
Leuthen and Montereau’, to which great generals on the
defensive have often trusted, is still, if we would be clear and
exact, only a rare occurrence in history.

Much more frequently the relative superiority – that is, the

skilful assemblage of superior forces at the decisive point –
has its foundation in the right appreciation of those points, in
the judicious direction which by that means has been given to
the forces from the very first, and in the resolution required to
sacrifice the unimportant to the advantage of the important –
that is, to keep the forces concentrated in an overpowering
mass. In this, Frederick the Great and Bonaparte are
particularly characteristic.

We think we have now allotted to the superiority in numbers

the importance which belongs to it; it is to be regarded as the
fundamental idea, always to be aimed at before all and as far
as possible.

But to regard it on this account as a necessary condition of

victory would be a complete misconception of our exposition;
in the conclusion to be drawn from it there lies nothing more
than the value which should attach to numerical strength in
the combat. If that strength is made as great as possible, then
the maxim is satisfied; a review of the total relations must
then decide whether or not the combat is to be avoided for
want of sufficient force.

258
Chapter ix

The Surprise

From the subject of the foregoing chapter, the general

endeavour to attain a relative superiority, there follows
another endeavour which must consequently be just as
general in its nature: this is the surprise of the enemy. It lies
more or less at the foundation of all undertakings, for without
it the preponderance at the decisive point is not properly
conceivable.

The surprise is, therefore, not only the means to the

attainment of numerical superiority; but it is also to be
regarded as a substantive principle in itself, on account of its
moral effect. When it is successful in a high degree, confusion
and broken courage in the enemy’s ranks are the
consequences; and of the degree to which these multiply a
success, there are examples enough, great and small. We are
not now speaking of the particular surprise which belongs to
the attack, but of the endeavour by measures generally, and
especially by the distribution of forces, to surprise the enemy,
which can be imagined just as well in the defensive, and
which in the tactical defence particularly is a chief point.

We say, surprise lies at the foundation of all undertakings

without exception, only in very different degrees according to
the nature of the undertaking and other circumstances.

This difference, indeed, originates in the properties or

peculiarities of the army and its commander, in those even of
the government.

259
Secrecy and rapidity are the two factors in this product; and
these suppose in the government and the commander-in-chief
great energy, and on the part of the army a high sense of
military duty. With effeminacy and loose principles it is in
vain to calculate upon a surprise. But so general, indeed so
indispensable, as is this endeavour, and true as it is that it is
never wholly unproductive of effect, still it is not the less true
that it seldom succeeds to a remarkable degree, and this
follows from the nature of the idea itself. We should form an
erroneous conception if we believed that by this means
chiefly there is much to be attained in war. In idea it promises
a great deal; in the execution it generally sticks fast by the
friction of the whole machine.

In tactics the surprise is much more at home, for the very

natural reason that all times and spaces are on a smaller scale.
It will, therefore, in strategy be the more feasible in
proportion as the measures lie nearer to the province of
tactics, and more difficult the higher up they lie towards the
province of policy.

The preparations for a war usually occupy several months; the

assembly of an army at its principal positions requires
generally the formation of depots and magazines, and long
marches, the object of which can be guessed soon enough.

It therefore rarely happens that one state surprises another by

a war, or by the direction which it gives the mass of its forces.
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when war turned
very much upon sieges, it was a frequent aim, and quite a
peculiar and important chapter in the art of war, to invest a
strong place unexpectedly, but even that only rarely
succeeded.

260
On the other hand, with things which can be done in a day or
two, a surprise is much more conceivable, and, therefore, also
it is often not difficult thus to gain a march upon the enemy,
and thereby a position, a point of country, a road, etc. But it is
evident that what surprise gains in this way in easy execution,
it loses in the efficacy, as the greater the efficacy the greater
always the difficulty of execution. Whoever thinks that with
such surprises on a small scale, he may connect great results –
as, for example, the gain of a battle, the capture of an
important magazine – believes in something which it is
certainly very possible to imagine, but for which there is no
warrant in history; for there are upon the whole very few
instances where anything great has resulted from such
surprises; from which we may justly conclude that inherent
difficulties lie in the way of their success.

Certainly, whoever would consult history on such points must

not depend on sundry battle steeds of historical critics, on
their wise dicta and self-complacent terminology, but look at
facts with his own eyes. There is, for instance, a certain day in
the campaign in Silesia, 1761, which, in this respect, has
attained a kind of notoriety. It is 22 July, on which Frederick
the Great gained on Laudon the march to Nossen, near
Neisse, by which, as is said, the junction of the Austrian and
Russian armies in Upper Silesia became impossible, and,
therefore, a period of four weeks was gained by the King.
Whoever reads over this occurrence carefully in the principal
histories, and considers it impartially, will, in the march of 22
July, never find this importance; and generally in the whole of
the fashionable logic on this subject, he will see nothing but
contradictions; but in the proceedings of Laudon, in this
renowned period of manoeuvres, much that is unaccountable.

261
How could one with a thirst for truth, and clear conviction,
accept such historical evidence?

When we promise ourselves great effects in a campaign from

the principle of surprising, we think upon great activity, rapid
resolutions, and forced marches, as the means of producing
them; but that these things, even when forthcoming in a very
high degree, will not always produce the desired effect, we
see in examples given by two generals, who may be allowed
to have had the greatest talent in the use of these means,
Frederick the Great and Bonaparte. The first when he left
Dresden so suddenly in July 1760, and falling upon Lascy,
then turned against Dresden, gained nothing by the whole of
that intermezzo, but rather placed his affairs in a condition
notably worse, as the fortress Glatz fell in the meantime.

In 1813, Bonaparte turned suddenly from Dresden twice

against Blücher, to say nothing of his incursion into Bohemia
from Upper Lusatia, and both times without in the least
attaining his object. They were blows in the air which only
cost him time and force, and might have placed him in a
dangerous position in Dresden.

Therefore, even in this field, a surprise does not necessarily

meet with great success through the mere activity, energy,
and resolution of the commander; it must be favoured by
other circumstances. But we by no means deny that there can
be success; we only connect with it a necessity of favourable
circumstances, which, certainly do not occur very frequently,
and which the commander can seldom bring about himself.

Just those two generals afford each a striking illustration of

this. We take first Bonaparte in his famous enterprise against

262
Blücher’s army in February 1814, when it was separated from
the Grand Army, and descending the Marne. It would not be
easy to find a two days’ march to surprise the enemy
productive of greater results than this; Blücher’s army,
extended over a distance of three days’ march, was beaten in
detail, and suffered a loss nearly equal to that of defeat in a
great battle. This was completely the effect of a surprise, for
if Blücher had thought of such a near possibility of an attack
from Bonaparte he would have organised his march quite
differently. To this mistake of Blücher’s the result is to be
attributed. Bonaparte did not know all these circumstances,
and so there was a piece of good fortune that mixed itself up
in his favour.

It is the same with the battle of Liegnitz, 1760. Frederick the

Great gained this fine victory through altering during the
night a position which he had just before taken up. Laudon
was through this completely surprised, and lost 70 pieces of
artillery and 10,000 men. Although Frederick the Great had at
this time adopted the principle of moving backwards and
forwards in order to make a battle impossible, or at least to
disconcert the enemy’s plans, still the alteration of position on
the night of the 14th–15th was not made exactly with that
intention, but as the King himself says, because the position
of the 14th did not please him. Here, therefore, also chance
was hard at work; without this happy conjunction of the
attack and the change of position in the night, and the difficult
nature of the country, the result would not have been the
same.

Also in the higher and highest province of strategy there are

some instances of surprises fruitful in results. We shall only
cite the brilliant marches of the Great Elector against the

263
Swedes from Franconia to Pomerania and from the Mark
(Brandenburg) to the Pregel in 1757, and the celebrated
passage of the Alps by Bonaparte, 1800. In the latter case an
army gave up its whole theatre of war by a capitulation, and
in 1757 another army was very near giving up its theatre of
war and itself as well. Lastly, as an instance of a war wholly
unexpected, we may bring forward the invasion of Silesia by
Frederick the Great. Great and powerful are here the results
everywhere, but such events are not common in history if we
do not confuse with them cases in which a state, for want of
activity and energy (Saxony 1756, and Russia, 1812), has not
completed its preparations in time.

Now there still remains an observation which concerns the

essence of the thing. A surprise can only be effected by that
party which gives the law to the other; and he who is in the
right gives the law. If we surprise the adversary by a wrong
measure, then instead of reaping good results, we may have to
bear a sound blow in return; in any case the adversary need
not trouble himself much about our surprise, he has in our
mistake the means of turning off the evil. As the offensive
includes in itself much more positive action than the
defensive, so the surprise is certainly more in its place with
the assailant, but by no means invariably, as we shall
hereafter see. Mutual surprises by the offensive and defensive
may therefore meet, and then that one will have the advantage
who has hit the nail on the head the best.

So should it be, but practical life does not keep to this line so
exactly, and that for a very simple reason. The moral effects
which attend a surprise often convert the worst case into a
good one for the side they favour, and do not allow the other
to make any regular determination. We have here in view

264
more than anywhere else not only the chief commander, but
each single one, because a surprise has the effect in particular
of greatly loosening unity, so that the individuality of each
separate leader easily comes to light.

Much depends here on the general relation in which the two

parties stand to each other. If the one side through a general
moral superiority can intimidate and outdo the other, then he
can make use of the surprise with more success, and even
reap good fruit where properly he should come to ruin.

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Chapter x

Stratagem

Stratagem implies a concealed intention, and therefore is

opposed to straightforward dealing, in the same way as wit is
the opposite of direct proof. It has therefore nothing in
common with means of persuasion, of self-interest, of force,
but a great deal to do with deceit, because that likewise
conceals its object. It is itself a deceit as well when it is done,
but still it differs from what is commonly called deceit, in this
respect that there is no direct breach of word. The deceiver by
stratagem leaves it to the person himself whom he is
deceiving to commit the errors of understanding which at last,
flowing into one result, suddenly change the nature of things
in his eyes. We may therefore say, as wit is a sleight of hand
with ideas and conceptions, so stratagem is a sleight of hand
with actions.

At first sight it appears as if strategy had not improperly

derived its name from stratagem; and that, with all the real
and apparent changes which the whole character of war has
undergone since the time of the Greeks, this term still points
to its real nature.

If we leave to tactics the actual delivery of the blow, the battle

itself, and look upon strategy as the art of using this means
with skill, then besides the forces of the character, such as
burning ambition which always presses like a spring, a strong
will which hardly bends, etc., etc., there seems no subjective
quality so suited to guide and inspire strategic activity as
stratagem. The general tendency to surprise, treated of in the

266
foregoing chapter, points to this conclusion, for there is a
degree of stratagem, be it ever so small, which lies at the
foundation of every attempt to surprise. But however much
we feel a desire to see the actors in war outdo each other in
hidden activity, readiness, and stratagem, still we must admit
that these qualities show themselves but little in history, and
have rarely been able to work their way to the surface from
amongst the mass of relations and circumstances.

The explanation of this is obvious, and it is almost identical

with the subject matter of the preceding chapter.

Strategy knows no other activity than the regulating of

combat with the measures which relate to it. It has no
concern, like ordinary life, with transactions which consist
merely of words – that is, in expressions, declarations, etc.
But these, which are very inexpensive, are chiefly the means
with which the wily one takes in those he practises upon.

That which there is like it in war, plans and orders given

merely as make-believers, false reports sent on purpose to the
enemy – is usually of so little effect in the strategic field that
it is only resorted to in particular cases which offer of
themselves, therefore cannot be regarded as spontaneous
action which emanates from the leader.

But such measures as carrying out the arrangements for a

battle, so far as to impose upon the enemy, require a
considerable expenditure of time and power; of course, the
greater the impression to be made, the greater the expenditure
in these respects. And as this is usually not given for the
purpose, very few demonstrations, so-called, in strategy,
effect the object for which they are designed. In fact, it is

267
dangerous to detach large forces for any length of time merely
for a trick, because there is always the risk of its being done
in vain, and then these forces are wanted at the decisive point.

The chief actor in war is always thoroughly sensible of this

sober truth, and therefore he has no desire to play at tricks of
agility. The bitter earnestness of necessity presses so fully
into direct action that there is no room for that game. In a
word, the pieces on the strategical chessboard want that
mobility which is the element of stratagem and subtlety.

The conclusion which we draw, is that a correct and

penetrating eye is a more necessary and more useful quality
for a general than craftiness, although that also does no harm
if it does not exist at the expense of necessary qualities of the
heart, which is only too often the case.

But the weaker the forces become which are under the
command of strategy, so much the more they become adapted
for stratagem, so that to the quite feeble and little, for whom
no prudence, no sagacity is any longer sufficient at the point
where all art seems to forsake him, stratagem offers itself as a
last resource. The more helpless his situation, the more
everything presses towards one single, desperate blow, the
more readily stratagem comes to the aid of his boldness. Let
loose from all further calculations, freed from all concern for
the future, boldness and stratagem intensify each other, and
thus collect at one point an infinitesimal glimmering of hope
into a single ray, which may likewise serve to kindle a flame.

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Chapter xi

Assembly of Forces in Space

The best strategy is always to be very strong, first generally

then at the decisive point. Therefore, apart from the energy
which creates the army, a work which is not always done by
the general, there is no more imperative and no simpler law
for strategy than to keep the forces concentrated. No portion
is to be separated from the main body unless called away by
some urgent necessity. On this maxim we stand firm, and
look upon it as a guide to be depended upon. What are the
reasonable grounds on which a detachment of forces may be
made we shall learn by degrees. Then we shall also see that
this principle cannot have the same general effects in every
war, but that these are different according to the means and
end.

It seems incredible, and yet it has happened a hundred times,

that troops have been divided and separated merely through a
mysterious feeling of conventional manner, without any clear
perception of the reason.

If the concentration of the whole force is acknowledged as the

norm, and every division and separation as an exception
which must be justified, then not only will that folly be
completely avoided, but also many an erroneous ground for
separating troops will be barred admission.

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Chapter xii

Assembly of Forces in Time

We have here to deal with a conception which in real life

diffuses many kinds of illusory light. A clear definition and
development of the idea is therefore necessary, and we hope
to be allowed a short analysis.

War is the shock of two opposing forces in collision with

each other, from which it follows as a matter of course that
the stronger not only destroys the other, but carries it forward
with it in its movement. This fundamentally admits of no
successive action of powers, but makes the simultaneous
application of all forces intended for the shock appear as a
primordial law of war.

So it is in reality, but only so far as the struggle resembles

also in practice a mechanical shock, but when it consists in a
lasting mutual action of destructive forces, then we can
certainly imagine a successive action of forces. This is the
case in tactics, principally because firearms form the basis of
all tactics, but also for other reasons as well. If in a fire
combat 1,000 men are opposed to 500, then the gross loss is
calculated from the amount of the enemy’s force and our
own; 1,000 men fire twice as many shots as 500, but more
shots will take effect on the 1,000 than on the 500 because it
is assumed that they stand in closer order than the other. If we
were to suppose the number of hits to be double, then the
losses on each side would be equal. From the 500 there would
be for example 200 disabled, and out of the body of 1,000
likewise the same; now if the 500 had kept another body of

270
equal number quite out of fire, then both sides would have
800 effective men; but of these, on the one side there would
be 500 men quite fresh, fully supplied with ammunition, and
in their full vigour; on the other side only 800 all alike shaken
in their order, in want of sufficient ammunition and weakened
in physical force. The assumption that the 1,000 men merely
on account of their greater number would lose twice as many
as 500 would have lost in their place, is certainly not correct;
therefore the greater loss which the side suffers that has
placed the half of its force in reserve, must be regarded as a
disadvantage in that original formation; further it must be
admitted, that in the generality of cases the 1,000 men would
have the advantage at the first commencement of being able
to drive their opponent out of his position and force him to a
retrograde movement; now, whether these two advantages are
a counterpoise to the disadvantage of finding ourselves with
800 men to a certain extent disorganised by the combat,
opposed to an enemy who is not materially weaker in
numbers and who has 500 quite fresh troops, is one that
cannot be decided by pursuing an analysis further, we must
here rely upon experience, and there will scarcely be an
officer experienced in war who will not in the generality of
cases assign the advantage to that side which has the fresh
troops.

In this way it becomes evident how the employment of too

many forces in combat may be disadvantageous; for whatever
advantages the superiority may give in the first moment, we
may have to pay dearly for in the next.

But this danger only endures as long as the disorder, the state
of confusion and weakness lasts, in a word, up to the crisis
which every combat brings with it even for the conqueror.

271
Within the duration of this relaxed state of exhaustion, the
appearance of a proportionate number of fresh troops is
decisive.

But when this disordering effect of victory stops, and

therefore only the moral superiority remains which every
victory gives, then it is no longer possible for fresh troops to
restore the combat, they would only be carried along in the
general movement; a beaten army cannot be brought back to
victory a day after by means of a strong reserve. Here we find
ourselves at the source of a highly material difference
between tactics and strategy.

The tactical results, the results within the four corners of the
battle, and before its close, lie for the most part within the
limits of that period of disorder and weakness. But the
strategic result, that is to say, the result of the total combat, of
the victories realised, let them be small or great, lies
completely (beyond) outside of that period. It is only when
the results of partial combats have bound themselves together
into an independent whole, that the strategic result appears,
but then, the state of crisis is over, the forces have resumed
their original form, and are now only weakened to the extent
of those actually destroyed (placed hors de combat).

The consequence of this difference is, that tactics can make a

continued use of forces, strategy only a simultaneous one.

If I cannot, in tactics, decide all by the first success, if I have

to fear the next moment, it follows of itself that I employ only
so much of my force for the success of the first moment as
appears sufficient for that object, and keep the rest beyond the
reach of fire or conflict of any kind, in order to be able to

272
oppose fresh troops to fresh, or with such to overcome those
that are exhausted. But it is not so in strategy. Partly, as we
have just shown, it has not so much reason to fear a reaction
after a success realised, because with that success the crisis
stops; partly all the forces strategically employed are not
necessarily weakened. Only so much of them as have been
tactically in conflict with the enemy’s force, that is, engaged
in partial combat, are weakened by it; consequently, only so
much as was unavoidably necessary, but by no means all
which was strategically in conflict with the enemy, unless
tactics has expended them unnecessarily. Corps which, on
account of the general superiority in numbers, have either
been little or not at all engaged, whose presence alone has
assisted in the result, are after the decision the same as they
were before, and for new enterprises as efficient as if they had
been entirely inactive. How greatly such corps which thus
constitute our excess may contribute to the total success is
evident in itself; indeed, it is not difficult to see how they may
even diminish considerably the loss of the forces engaged in
tactical conflict on our side.

If, therefore, in strategy the loss does not increase with the
number of the troops employed, but is often diminished by it,
and if, as a natural consequence, the decision in our favour is,
by that means, the more certain, then it follows naturally that
in strategy we can never employ too many forces, and
consequently also that they must be applied simultaneously to
the immediate purpose.

But we must vindicate this proposition upon another ground.

We have hitherto only spoken of the combat itself; it is the
real activity in war, but men, time, and space, which appear as
the elements of this activity, must, at the same time, be kept

273
in view, and the results of their influence brought into
consideration also.

Fatigue, exertion, and privation constitute in war a special

principle of destruction, not essentially belonging to contest,
but more or less inseparably bound up with it, and certainly
one which especially belongs to strategy. They no doubt exist
in tactics as well, and perhaps there in the highest degree; but
as the duration of the tactical acts is shorter, therefore the
small effects of exertion and privation on them can come but
little into consideration. But in strategy on the other hand,
where time and space are on a larger scale, their influence is
not only always very considerable, but often quite decisive. It
is not at all uncommon for a victorious army to lose many
more by sickness than on the field of battle.

If, therefore, we look at this sphere of destruction in strategy

in the same manner as we have considered that of fire and
close combat in tactics, then we may well imagine that
everything which comes within its vortex will, at the end of
the campaign or of any other strategic period, be reduced to a
state of weakness, which makes the arrival of a fresh force
decisive. We might therefore conclude that there is a motive
in the one case as well as the other to strive for the first
success with as few forces as possible, in order to keep up this
fresh force for the last.

In order to estimate exactly this conclusion, which, in many

cases in practice, will have a great appearance of truth, we
must direct our attention to the separate ideas which it
contains. In the first place, we must not confuse the notion of
reinforcement with that of fresh unused troops. There are few
campaigns at the end of which an increase of force is not

274
earnestly desired by the conqueror as well as the conquered,
and indeed should appear decisive; but that is not the point
here, for that increase of force could not be necessary if the
force had been so much larger at the first. But it would be
contrary to all experience to suppose that an army coming
fresh into the field is to be esteemed higher in point of moral
value than an army already in the field, just as a tactical
reserve is more to be esteemed than a body of troops which
has been already severely handled in the fight. Just as much
as an unfortunate campaign lowers the courage and moral
powers of an army, a successful one raises these elements in
their value. In the generality of cases, therefore, these
influences are compensated, and then there remains over and
above as clear gain the habituation to war. We should besides
look more here to successful than to unsuccessful campaigns,
because when the greater probability of the latter may be seen
beforehand, without doubt forces are wanted, and, therefore,
the reserving a portion for future use is out of the question.

The point being settled, then the question is, Do the losses
which a force sustains through fatigues and privations
increase in proportion to the size of the force, as is the case in
a combat? And to that we answer ‘No.’

The fatigues of war result in a great measure from the dangers

with which every moment of the act of war is more or less
impregnated. To encounter these dangers at all points, to
proceed onwards with security in the execution of one’s
plans, gives employment to a multitude of agencies which
make up the tactical and strategic service of the army. This
service is more difficult the weaker an army is, and easier as
its numerical superiority over that of the enemy increases.
Who can doubt this? A campaign against a much weaker

275
enemy will therefore cost smaller efforts than against one just
as strong or stronger.

So much for the fatigues. It is somewhat different with the

privations; they consist chiefly of two things, the want of
food, and the want of shelter for the troops, either in quarters
or in suitable camps. Both these wants will no doubt be
greater in proportion as the number of men on one spot is
greater. But does not the superiority in force afford also the
best means of spreading out and finding more room, and
therefore more means of subsistence and shelter?

If Bonaparte, in his invasion of Russia in 1812, concentrated

his army in great masses upon one single road in a manner
never heard of before, and thus caused privations equally
unparalleled, we must ascribe it to his maxim that it is
impossible to be too strong at the decisive point. Whether in
this instance he did not strain the principle too far is a
question which would be out of place here; but it is certain
that, if he had made a point of avoiding the distress which
was by that means brought about, he had only to advance on a
greater breadth of front. Room was not wanted for the
purpose in Russia, and in very few cases can it be wanted.
Therefore, from this no ground can be deduced to prove that
the simultaneous employment of very superior forces must
produce greater weakening. But now, supposing that in spite
of the general relief afforded by setting apart a portion of the
army, wind and weather and the toils of war had produced a
diminution even on the part which as a spare force had been
reserved for later use, still we must take a comprehensive
general view of the whole, and therefore ask, will this
diminution of force suffice to counterbalance the gain in

276
forces, which we, through our superiority in numbers, may be
able to make in more ways than one?

But there still remains a most important point to be noticed. In

a partial combat, the force required to obtain a great result can
be approximately estimated without much difficulty, and,
consequently, we can form an idea of what is superfluous. In
strategy this may be said to be impossible, because the
strategic result has no such well-defined object and no such
circumscribed limits as the tactical. Thus what can be looked
upon in tactics as an excess of power, must be regarded in
strategy as a means to give expansion to success, if
opportunity offers for it; with the magnitude of the success
the gain in force increases at the same time, and in this way
the superiority of numbers may soon reach a point which the
most careful economy of forces could never have attained.

By means of his enormous numerical superiority, Bonaparte

was enabled to reach Moscow in 1812, and to take that central
capital. Had he by means of this superiority succeeded in
completely defeating the Russian army, he would, in all
probability, have concluded a peace in Moscow which in any
other way was much less attainable. This example is used to
explain the idea, not to prove it, which would require a
circumstantial demonstration, for which this is not the place.

All these reflections bear merely upon the idea of a successive

employment of forces, and not upon the conception of a
reserve properly so called, which they, no doubt, come in
contact with throughout, but which, as we shall see in the
following chapter, is connected with some other
considerations.

277
What we desire to establish here is, that if in tactics the
military force through the mere duration of actual
employment suffers a diminution of power, if time, therefore,
appears as a factor in the result, this is not the case in strategy
in a material degree. The destructive effects which are also
produced upon the forces in strategy by time, are partly
diminished through their mass, partly made good in other
ways, and, therefore, in strategy it cannot be an object to
make time an ally on its own account by bringing troops
successively into action.

We say ‘on its own account’, for the influence which time, on
account of other circumstances which it brings about but
which are different from itself, can have, indeed must
necessarily have, for one of the two parties, is quite another
thing, is anything but indifferent or unimportant, and will be
the subject of consideration hereafter.

The rule which we have been seeking to set forth is, therefore,
that all forces which are available and destined for a strategic
object should be simultaneously applied to it; and this
application will be so much the more complete the more
everything is compressed into one act and into one
movement.

But still there is in strategy a renewal of effort and a persistent

action which, as a chief means towards the ultimate success,
is more particularly not to be overlooked; it is the continual
development of new forces. This is also the subject of another
chapter, and we only refer to it here in order to prevent the
reader from having something in view of which we have not
been speaking.

278
We now turn to a subject very closely connected with our
present considerations, which must be settled before full light
can be thrown on the whole; we mean the strategic reserve.

279
Chapter xiii

Strategic Reserve

A reserve has two objects which are very distinct from each
other, namely, first, the prolongation and renewal of the
combat, and secondly, for use in case of unforeseen events.
The first object implies the utility of a successive application
of forces, and on that account cannot occur in strategy. Cases
in which a corps is sent to succour a point which is supposed
to be about to fall are plainly to be placed in the category of
the second object, as the resistance which has to be offered
here could not have been sufficiently foreseen. But a corps
which is destined expressly to prolong the combat, and with
that object in view is placed in rear, would be only a corps
placed out of reach of fire, but under the command and at the
disposition of the general commanding in the action, and
accordingly would be a tactical and not a strategic reserve.

But the necessity for a force ready for unforeseen events may
also take place in strategy, and consequently there may also
be a strategic reserve, but only where unforeseen events are
imaginable. In tactics, where the enemy’s measures are
generally first ascertained by direct sight, and where they may
be concealed by every wood, every fold of undulating ground,
we must naturally always be alive, more or less, to the
possibility of unforeseen events, in order to strengthen,
subsequently, those points which appear too weak, and, in
fact, to modify generally the disposition of our troops, so as to
make it correspond better to that of the enemy.

280
Such cases must also happen in strategy, because the strategic
act is directly linked to the tactical. In strategy also many a
measure is first adopted in consequence of what is actually
seen, or in consequence of uncertain reports arriving from day
to day, or even from hour to hour, and lastly, from the actual
results of the combats; it is, therefore, an essential condition
of strategic command that, according to the degree of
uncertainty, forces must be kept in reserve against future
contingencies.

In the defensive generally, but particularly in the defence of

certain obstacles of ground, like rivers, hills, etc., such
contingencies, as is well known, happen constantly.

But this uncertainty diminishes in proportion as the strategic

activity has less of the tactical character, and ceases almost
altogether in those regions where it borders on politics.

The direction in which the enemy leads his columns to the

combat can be perceived by actual sight only; where he
intends to pass a river is learnt from a few preparations which
are made shortly before; the line by which he proposes to
invade our country is usually announced by all the
newspapers before a pistol shot has been fired. The greater
the nature of the measure the less it will take the enemy by
surprise. Time and space are so considerable, the
circumstances out of which the action proceeds so public and
little susceptible of alteration, that the coming event is either
made known in good time, or can be discovered with
reasonable certainty.

On the other hand the use of a reserve in this province of

strategy, even if one were available, will always be less

281
efficacious the more the measure has a tendency towards
being one of a general nature.

We have seen that the decision of a partial combat is nothing

in itself, but that all partial combats only find their complete
solution in the decision of the total combat.

But even this decision of the total combat has only a relative
meaning of many different gradations, according as the force
over which the victory has been gained forms a more or less
great and important part of the whole. The lost battle of a
corps may be repaired by the victory of the army. Even the
lost battle of an army may not only be counterbalanced by the
gain of a more important one, but converted into a fortunate
event (the two days of Kulm, 29 and 30 August 1813). No
one can doubt this; but it is just as clear that the weight of
each victory (the successful issue of each total combat) is so
much the more substantial the more important the part
conquered, and that therefore the possibility of repairing the
loss by subsequent events diminishes in the same proportion.
In another place we shall have to examine this more in detail;
it suffices for the present to have drawn attention to the
indubitable existence of this progression.

If we now add lastly to these two considerations the third,

which is, that if the persistent use of forces in tactics always
shifts the great result to the end of the whole act, the law of
the simultaneous use of the forces in strategy, on the contrary,
lets the principal result (which need not be the final one) take
place almost always at the commencement of the great (or
whole) act, then in these three results we have grounds
sufficient to find strategic reserves always more superfluous,

282
always more useless, always more dangerous, the more
general their destination.

The point where the idea of a strategic reserve begins to

become inconsistent is not difficult to determine: it lies in the
supreme decision. Employment must be given to all the forces
within the space of the supreme decision, and every reserve
(active force available) which is only intended for use after
that decision is opposed to common sense.

If, therefore, tactics has in its reserves the means of not only
meeting unforeseen dispositions on the part of the enemy, but
also of repairing that which never can be foreseen, the result
of the combat, should that be unfortunate; strategy on the
other hand must, at least as far as relates to the capital result,
renounce the use of these means. As a rule, it can only repair
the losses sustained at one point by advantages gained at
another, in a few cases by moving troops from one point to
another; the idea of preparing for such reverses by placing
forces in reserve beforehand, can never be entertained in
strategy.

We have pointed out as an absurdity the idea of a strategic

reserve which is not to co-operate in the capital result, and as
it is so beyond a doubt, we should not have been led into such
an analysis as we have made in these two chapters, were it not
that, in the disguise of other ideas, it looks like something
better, and frequently makes its appearance. One person sees
in it the acme of strategic sagacity and foresight; another
rejects it, and with it the idea of any reserve, consequently
even of a tactical one. This confusion of ideas is transferred to
real life, and if we would see a memorable instance of it we
have only to call to mind that Prussia in 1806 left a reserve of

283
20,000 men cantoned in the Mark, under Prince Eugene of
Wurtemberg, which could not possibly reach the Saale in time
to be of any use, and that another force of 25,000 men
belonging to this power remained in East and South Prussia,
destined only to be put on a war-footing afterwards as a
reserve.

After these examples we cannot be accused of having been

fighting with windmills.

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Chapter xiv

Economy of Forces

The road of reason, as we have said, seldom allows itself to

be reduced to a mathematical line by principles and opinions.
There remains always a certain margin. But it is the same in
all the practical arts of life. For the lines of beauty there are
no abscissae and ordinates; circles and ellipses are not
described by means of their algebraical formulae. The actor in
war therefore soon finds he must trust himself to the delicate
tact of judgement which, founded on natural quickness of
perception, and educated by reflection, almost unconsciously
seizes upon the right; he soon finds that at one time he must
simplify the law (by reducing it) to some prominent
characteristic points which form his rules; that at another the
adopted method must become the staff on which he leans.

As one of these simplified characteristic points as a mental

appliance, we look upon the principle of watching continually
over the co-operation of all forces, or in other words, of
keeping constantly in view that no part of them should ever
be idle. Whoever has forces where the enemy does not give
them sufficient employment, whoever has part of his forces
on the march – that is, allows them to lie dead – while the
enemy’s are fighting, he is a bad manager of his forces. In this
sense there is a waste of forces, which is even worse than
their employment to no purpose. If there must be action, then
the first point is that all parts act, because the most
purposeless activity still keeps employed and destroys a
portion of the enemy’s force, whilst troops completely
inactive are for the moment quite neutralised. Unmistakably

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this idea is bound up with the principles contained in the last
three chapters; it is the same truth, but seen from a somewhat
more comprehensive point of view and condensed into a
single conception.

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Chapter xv

Geometrical Element

The length to which the geometrical element or form in the

disposition of military force in war can become a
predominant principle, we see in the art of fortification, where
geometry looks after the great and the little. Also in tactics it
plays a great part. It is the basis of elementary tactics, or of
the theory of moving troops; but in field fortification, as well
as in the theory of positions, and of their attack, its angles and
lines rule like lawgivers who have to decide the contest.
Many things here were at one time misapplied, and others
were mere fribbles; still, however, in the tactics of the present
day, in which in every combat the aim is to surround the
enemy, the geometrical element has attained anew a great
importance in a very simple, but constantly recurring
application. Nevertheless, in tactics, where all is more
movable, where the moral forces, individual traits, and chance
are more influential than in a war of sieges, the geometrical
element can never attain to the same degree of supremacy as
in the latter. But less still is its influence in strategy; certainly
here, also, form in the disposition of troops, the shape of
countries and states is of great importance; but the
geometrical element is not decisive, as in fortification, and
not nearly so important as in tactics. The manner in which this
influence exhibits itself, can only be shown by degrees at
those places where it makes its appearance, and deserves
notice. Here we wish more to direct attention to the difference
which there is between tactics and strategy in relation to it.

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In tactics time and space quickly dwindle to their absolute
minimum. If a body of troops is attacked in flank and rear by
the enemy, it soon gets to a point where retreat no longer
remains; such a position is very close to an absolute
impossibility of continuing the fight; it must therefore
extricate itself from it, or avoid getting into it. This gives to
all combinations aiming at this from the first commencement
a great efficiency, which chiefly consists in the disquietude
which it causes the enemy as to consequences. This is why
the geometrical disposition of the forces is such an important
factor in the tactical product.

In strategy this is only faintly reflected, on account of the

greater space and time. We do not fire from one theatre of war
upon another; and often weeks and months must pass before a
strategic movement designed to surround the enemy can be
executed. Further, the distances are so great that the
probability of hitting the right point at last, even with the best
arrangements, is but small.

In strategy therefore the scope for such combinations, that is

for those resting on the geometrical element, is much smaller,
and for the same reason the effect of an advantage once
actually gained at any point is much greater. Such advantage
has time to bring all its effects to maturity before it is
disturbed, or quite neutralised therein, by any counteracting
apprehensions. We therefore do not hesitate to regard as an
established truth, that in strategy more depends on the number
and the magnitude of the victorious combats, than on the form
of the great lines by which they are connected.

A view just the reverse has been a favourite theme of modern

theory, because a greater importance was supposed to be thus

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given to strategy, and, as the higher functions of the mind
were seen in strategy, it was thought by that means to ennoble
war, and, as it was said – through a new substitution of ideas
– to make it more scientific. We hold it to be one of the
principal uses of a complete theory openly to expose such
vagaries, and as the geometrical element is the fundamental
idea from which theory usually proceeds, therefore we have
expressly brought out this point in strong relief.

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Chapter xvi

On the Suspension of the Act in War

If one considers war as an act of mutual destruction, we must

of necessity imagine both parties as making some progress;
but at the same time, as regards the existing moment, we must
almost as necessarily suppose the one party in a state of
expectation, and only the other actually advancing, for
circumstances can never be actually the same on both sides,
or continue so. In time a change must ensue, from which it
follows that the present moment is more favourable to one
side than the other. Now if we suppose that both commanders
have a full knowledge of this circumstance, then the one has a
motive for action, which at the same time is a motive for the
other to wait; therefore, according to this it cannot be for the
interest of both at the same time to advance, nor can waiting
be for the interest of both at the same time. This opposition of
interest as regards the object is not deduced here from the
principle of general polarity, and therefore is not in opposition
to the argument in the fifth chapter of the second book; it
depends on the fact that here in reality the same thing is at
once an incentive or motive to both commanders, namely the
probability of improving or impairing their position by future
action.

But even if we suppose the possibility of a perfect equality of

circumstances in this respect, or if we take into account that
through imperfect knowledge of their mutual position such an
equality may appear to the two commanders to subsist, still
the difference of political objects does away with this
possibility of suspension. One of the parties must of necessity

290
be assumed politically to be the aggressor, because no war
could take place from defensive intentions on both sides. But
the aggressor has the positive object, the defender merely a
negative one. To the first then belongs the positive action, for
it is only by that means that he can attain the positive object;
therefore, in cases where both parties are in precisely similar
circumstances, the aggressor is called upon to act by virtue of
his positive object.

Therefore, from this point of view, a suspension in the act of

warfare, strictly speaking, is in contradiction with the nature
of the thing; because two armies, being two incompatible
elements, should destroy one another unremittingly, just as
fire and water can never put themselves in equilibrium, but
act and react upon one another, until one quite disappears.
What would be said of two wrestlers who remained clasped
round each other for hours without making a movement?
Action in war, therefore, like that of a clock which is wound
up, should go on running down in regular motion. But wild as
is the nature of war it still wears the chains of human
weakness, and the contradiction we see here, viz. that man
seeks and creates dangers which he fears at the same time,
will astonish no one.

If we cast a glance at military history in general, we find so

much the opposite of an incessant advance towards the aim,
that standing still and doing nothing is quite plainly the
normal condition of an army in the midst of war, acting, the
exception. This must almost raise a doubt as to the
correctness of our conception. But if military history leads to
this conclusion when viewed in the mass the latest series of
campaigns redeems our position. The war of the French
Revolution shows too plainly its reality, and only proves too

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clearly its necessity. In these operations, and especially in the
campaigns of Bonaparte, the conduct of war attained to that
unlimited degree of energy which we have represented as the
natural law of the element. This degree is therefore possible,
and if it is possible then it is necessary.

How could anyone in fact justify in the eyes of reason the

expenditure of forces in war, if acting was not the object? The
baker only heats his oven if he has bread to put into it; the
horse is only yoked to the carriage if we mean to drive; why
then make the enormous effort of a war if we look for nothing
else by it but like efforts on the part of the enemy?

So much in justification of the general principle; now as to its

modifications, as far as they lie in the nature of the thing and
are independent of special cases.

There are three causes to be noticed here, which appear as

innate counterpoises and prevent the over-rapid or
uncontrollable movement of the wheel-work.

The first, which produces a constant tendency to delay, and is

thereby a retarding principle, is the natural timidity and want
of resolution in the human mind, a kind of inertia in the moral
world, but which is produced not by attractive, but by
repellent forces, that is to say, by dread of danger and
responsibility.

In the burning element of war, ordinary natures appear to

become heavier; the impulsion given must therefore be
stronger and more frequently repeated if the motion is to be a
continuous one. The mere idea of the object for which arms
have been taken up is seldom sufficient to overcome this

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resistant force, and if a warlike enterprising spirit is not at the
head, who feels himself in war in his natural element, as
much as a fish in the ocean, or if there is not the pressure
from above of some great responsibility, then standing still
will be the order of the day, and progress will be the
exception.

The second cause is the imperfection of human perception

and judgement, which is greater in war than anywhere,
because a person hardly knows exactly his own position from
one moment to another, and can only conjecture on slight
grounds that of the enemy, which is purposely concealed; this
often gives rise to the case of both parties looking upon one
and the same object as advantageous for them, while in reality
the interest of one must preponderate; thus then each may
think he acts wisely by waiting another moment, as we have
already said in the fifth chapter of the second book.

The third cause which catches hold, like a ratchet wheel in

machinery, from time to time producing a complete standstill,
is the greater strength of the defensive form. A may feel too
weak to attack B, from which it does not follow that B is
strong enough for an attack on A. The addition of strength,
which the defensive gives is not merely lost by assuming the
offensive, but also passes to the enemy just as, figuratively
expressed, the difference of a + b and a – b is equal to 2b.
Therefore it may so happen that both parties, at one and the
same time, not only feel themselves too weak to attack, but
also are so in reality.

Thus even in the midst of the act of war itself, anxious

sagacity and the apprehension of too great danger find

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vantage ground, by means of which they can exert their
power, and tame the elementary impetuosity of war.

However, at the same time these causes without an

exaggeration of their effect, would hardly explain the long
states of inactivity which took place in military operations, in
former times, in wars undertaken about interests of no great
importance, and in which inactivity consumed nine-tenths of
the time that the troops remained under arms. This feature in
these wars, is to be traced principally to the influence which
the demands of the one party, and the condition, and feeling
of the other, exercised over the conduct of the operations, as
has been already observed in the chapter on the essence and
object of war.

These things may obtain such a preponderating influence as

to make of war a half-and-half affair. A war is often nothing
more than an armed neutrality, or a menacing attitude to
support negotiations or an attempt to gain some small
advantage by small exertions, and then to wait the tide of
circumstances, or a disagreeable treaty obligation, which is
fulfilled in the most niggardly way possible.

In all these cases in which the impulse given by interest is

slight, and the principle of hostility feeble, in which there is
no desire to do much, and also not much to dread from the
enemy; in short, where no powerful motives press and drive,
cabinets will not risk much in the game; hence this tame
mode of carrying on war, in which the hostile spirit of real
war is laid in irons.

The more war becomes in this manner devitalised so much

the more its theory becomes destitute of the necessary firm

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pivots and buttresses for its reasoning; the necessary is
constantly diminishing, the accidental constantly increasing.

Nevertheless in this kind of warfare, there is also a certain

shrewdness, indeed, its action is perhaps more diversified,
and more extensive than in the other. Hazard played with
rouleaux of gold seems changed into a game of commerce
with groschen. And on this field, where the conduct of war
spins out the time with a number of small flourishes, with
skirmishes at outposts, half in earnest half in jest, with long
dispositions which end in nothing, with positions and
marches, which afterwards are designated as skilful only
because their infinitesimally small causes are lost, and
common sense can make nothing of them, here on this very
field many theorists find the real art of war at home: in these
feints, parades, half and quarter thrusts of former wars, they
find the aim of all theory, the supremacy of mind over matter,
and modern wars appear to them mere savage fisticuffs, from
which nothing is to be learnt, and which must be regarded as
mere retrograde steps towards barbarism. This opinion is as
frivolous as the objects to which it relates. Where great forces
and great passions are wanting, it is certainly easier for a
practised dexterity to show its game; but is then the command
of great forces, not in itself a higher exercise of the intelligent
faculties? Is then that kind of conventional sword exercise not
comprised in and belonging to the other mode of conducting
war? Does it not bear the same relation to it as the motions
upon a ship to the motion of the ship itself? Truly it can take
place only under the tacit condition that the adversary does no
better. And can we tell, how long he may choose to respect
those conditions? Has not then the French Revolution fallen
upon us in the midst of the fancied security of our old system
of war, and driven us from Chalons to Moscow? And did not

295
Frederick the Great in like manner surprise the Austrians
reposing in their ancient habits of war, and make their
monarchy tremble? Woe to the cabinet which, with a
shilly-shally policy, and a routine-ridden military system,
meets with an adversary who, like the rude element, knows no
other law than that of his intrinsic force. Every deficiency in
energy and exertion is then a weight in the scales in favour of
the enemy; it is not so easy then to change from the fencing
posture into that of an athlete, and a slight blow is often
sufficient to knock down the whole.

The result of all the causes now adduced is, that the hostile
action of a campaign does not progress by a continuous, but
by an intermittent movement, and that, therefore, between the
separate bloody acts, there is a period of watching, during
which both parties fall into the defensive, and also that
usually a higher object causes the principle of aggression to
predominate on one side, and thus leaves it in general in an
advancing position, by which then its proceedings become
modified in some degree.

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Chapter xvii

On the Character of Modern War

The attention which must be paid to the character of war as it

is now made, has a great influence upon all plans, especially
on strategic ones.

Since all methods formerly usual were upset by Bonaparte’s

luck and boldness, and first-rate powers almost wiped out at a
blow; since the Spaniards by their stubborn resistance have
shown what the general arming of a nation and insurgent
measures on a great scale can effect, in spite of weakness and
porousness of individual parts; since Russia, by the campaign
of 1812 has taught us, first, that an empire of great
dimensions is not to be conquered (which might have been
easily known before), secondly, that the probability of final
success does not in all cases diminish in the same measure as
battles, capitals, and provinces are lost (which was formerly
an incontrovertible principle with all diplomatists, and
therefore made them always ready to enter at once into some
bad temporary peace), but that a nation is often strongest in
the heart of its country, if the enemy’s offensive power has
exhausted itself, and with what enormous force the defensive
then springs over to the offensive; further, since Prussia
(1813) has shown that sudden efforts may add to an army
sixfold by means of the militia, and that this militia is just as
fit for service abroad as in its own country; since all these
events have shown what an enormous factor the heart and
sentiments of a nation may be in the product of its political
and military strength, in fine, since governments have found
out all these additional aids, it is not to be expected that they

297
will let them lie idle in future wars, whether it be that danger
threatens their own existence, or that restless ambition drives
them on.

That a war which is waged with the whole weight of the

national power on each side must be organised differently in
principle to those where everything is calculated according to
the relations of standing armies to each other, it is easy to
perceive. Standing armies once resembled fleets, the land
force the sea force in their relations to the remainder of the
state, and from that the art of war on shore had in it something
of naval tactics, which it has now quite lost.

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Chapter xviii

Tension and Rest

The dynamic law of war

We have seen in the sixteenth chapter of this book (page 189),

how, in most campaigns, much more time used to be spent in
standing still and inaction than in activity. Now, although, as
observed in the preceding chapter we see quite a different
character in the present form of war, still it is certain that real
action will always be interrupted more or less by long pauses;
and this leads to the necessity of our examining more closely
the nature of these two phases of war.

If there is a suspension of action in war, that is, if neither

party wills something positive, there is rest, and consequently
equilibrium, but certainly an equilibrium in the largest
signification in which not only the moral and physical
war-forces, but all relations and interests, come into
calculation. As soon as ever one of the two parties proposes to
himself a new positive object, and commences active steps
towards it, even if it is only by preparations, and as soon as
the adversary opposes this, there is a tension of powers; this
lasts until the decision takes place – that is, until one party
either gives up his object or the other has conceded it to him.

This decision – the foundation of which lies always in the

combat-combinations which are made on each side – is
followed by a movement in one or other direction.

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When this movement has exhausted itself, either in the
difficulties which had to be mastered, in overcoming its own
internal friction, or through new resistant forces prepared by
the acts of the enemy, then either a state of rest takes place or
a new tension with a decision, and then a new movement, in
most cases in the opposite direction.

This speculative distinction between equilibrium, tension, and

motion is more essential for practical action than may at first
sight appear.

In a state of rest and of equilibrium a varied kind of activity

may prevail on one side that results from opportunity, and
does not aim at a great alteration. Such an activity may
contain important combats – even pitched battles – but yet it
is still of quite a different nature, and on that account
generally different in its effects.

If a state of tension exists, the effects of the decision are

always greater partly because a greater force of will and a
greater pressure of circumstances manifest themselves
therein; partly because everything has been prepared and
arranged for a great movement. The decision in such cases
resembles the effect of a mine well closed and tamped, whilst
an event in itself perhaps just as great, in a state of rest, is
more or less like a mass of powder puffed away in the open
air.

At the same time, as a matter of course, the state of tension

must be imagined in different degrees of intensity, and it may
therefore approach gradually by many steps towards the state
of rest, so that at the last there is a very slight difference
between them.

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Now the real use which we derive from these reflections is
the conclusion that every measure which is taken during a
state of tension is more important and more prolific in results
than the same measure could be in a state of equilibrium, and
that this importance increases immensely in the highest
degrees of tension.

The cannonade of Valmy, 20 September 1792, decided more

than the battle of Hochkirch, 14 October 1758.

In a tract of country which the enemy abandons to us because

he cannot defend it, we can settle ourselves differently from
what we should do if the retreat of the enemy was only made
with the view to a decision under more favourable
circumstances. Again, a strategic attack in course of
execution, a faulty position, a single false march, may be
decisive in its consequence; whilst in a state of equilibrium
such errors must be of a very glaring kind, even to excite the
activity of the enemy in a general way.

Most bygone wars, as we have already said, consisted, so far

as regards the greater part of the time, in this state of
equilibrium or at least in such short tensions with long
intervals between them, and weak in their effects, that the
events to which they gave rise were seldom great successes;
often they were theatrical exhibitions, got up in honour of a
royal birthday (Hochkirch), often a mere satisfying of the
honour of the arms (Kunersdorf), or the personal vanity of the
commander (Freiberg).

That a commander should thoroughly understand these states,

that he should have the tact to act in the spirit of them, we
hold to be a great requisite, and we have had experience in the

301
campaign of 1806 how far it is sometimes wanting. In that
tremendous tension, when everything pressed on towards a
supreme decision, and that alone with all its consequences
should have occupied the whole soul of the commander,
measures were proposed and even partly carried out (such as
the reconnaissance towards Franconia), which at the most
might have given a kind of gentle play of oscillation within a
state of equilibrium. Over these blundering schemes and
views, absorbing the activity of the army, the really necessary
means, which could alone save, were lost sight of.

But this speculative distinction which we have made is also

necessary for our further progress in the construction of our
theory, because all that we have to say on the relation of
attack and defence, and on the completion of this
double-sided act, concerns the state of the crisis in which the
forces are placed during the tension and motion, and because
all the activity which can take place during the condition of
equilibrium can only be regarded and treated as a corollary;
for that crisis is the real war and this state of equilibrium only
its reflection.

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Book IV

The Combat

303
Chapter i

Introductory

Having in the foregoing book examined the subjects which

may be regarded as the efficient elements of war, we shall
now turn our attention to the combat as the real activity in
warfare, which, by its physical and moral effects, embraces
sometimes more simply, sometimes in a more complex
manner, the object of the whole campaign. In this activity and
in its effects these elements must, therefore, reappear.

The formation of the combat is tactical in its nature; we only

glance at it here in a general way in order to get acquainted
with it in its aspect as a whole. In practice the minor or more
immediate objects give every combat a characteristic form;
these minor objects we shall not discuss until hereafter. But
these peculiarities are in comparison to the general
characteristics of a combat mostly only insignificant, so that
most combats are very like one another, and, therefore, in
order to avoid repeating that which is general at every stage,
we are compelled to look into it here, before taking up the
subject of its more special application.

In the first place, therefore, we shall give in the next chapter,

in a few words, the characteristics of the modern battle in its
tactical course, because that lies at the foundation of our
conceptions of what the battle really is.

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Chapter ii

Character of a Modern Battle

According to the notion we have formed of tactics and

strategy, it follows, as a matter of course, that if the nature of
the former is changed, that change must have an influence on
the latter. If tactical facts in one case are entirely different
from those in another, then the strategic must be so also, if
they are to continue consistent and reasonable. It is therefore
important to characterise a general action in its modern form
before we advance with the study of its employment in
strategy.

What do we do now usually in a great battle? We place

ourselves quietly in great masses arranged contiguous to and
behind one another. We deploy relatively only a small portion
of the whole, and let it wring itself out in a fire-combat which
lasts for several hours, only interrupted now and again, and
removed hither and thither by separate small shocks from
charges with the bayonet and cavalry attacks. When this line
has gradually exhausted part of its warlike ardour in this
manner and there remains nothing more than the cinders, it is
withdrawn and replaced by another.

In this manner the battle on a modified principle burns slowly

away like wet powder, and if the veil of night commands it to
stop, because neither party can any longer see, and neither
chooses to run the risk of blind chance, then an account is
taken by each side respectively of the masses remaining,
which can be called still effective, that is, which have not yet
quite collapsed like extinct volcanoes; account is taken of the

305
ground gained or lost, and of how stands the security of the
rear; these results with the special impressions as to bravery
and cowardice, ability and stupidity, which are thought to
have been observed in ourselves and in the enemy are
collected into one single total impression, out of which there
springs the resolution to quit the field or to renew the combat
on the morrow.

This description, which is not intended as a finished picture of

a modern battle, but only to give its general tone, suits for the
offensive and defensive, and the special traits which are
given, by the object proposed, the country, etc., etc., may be
introduced into it, without materially altering the conception.

But modern battles are not so by accident; they are so because

the parties find themselves nearly on a level as regards
military organisation and the knowledge of the art of war, and
because the warlike element inflamed by great national
interests has broken through artificial limits and now flows in
its natural channel. Under these two conditions, battles will
always preserve this character.

This general idea of the modern battle will be useful to us in

the sequel in more places than one, if we want to estimate the
value of the particular coefficients of strength, country, etc.,
etc. It is only for general, great, and decisive combats, and
such as come near to them that this description stands good;
inferior ones have changed their character also in the same
direction but less than great ones. The proof of this belongs to
tactics; we shall, however, have an opportunity hereafter of
making this subject plainer by giving a few particulars.

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Chapter iii

The Combat in General

The combat is the real warlike activity, everything else is only

its auxiliary; let us therefore take an attentive look at its
nature.

Combat means fighting, and in this the destruction or

conquest of the enemy is the object, and the enemy, in the
particular combat, is the armed force which stands opposed to
us.

This is the simple idea; we shall return to it, but before we can
do that we must insert a series of others.

If we suppose the state and its military force as a unit, then

the most natural idea is to imagine the war also as one great
combat, and in the simple relations of savage nations it is also
not much otherwise. But our wars are made up of a number of
great and small simultaneous or consecutive combats, and this
severance of the activity into so many separate actions is
owing to the great multiplicity of the relations out of which
war arises with us.

In point of fact, the ultimate object of our wars, the political

one, is not always quite a simple one; and even were it so,
still the action is bound up with such a number of conditions
and considerations to be taken into account, that the object
can no longer be attained by one single great act but only
through a number of greater or smaller acts which are bound
up into a whole; each of these separate acts is therefore a part

307
of a whole, and has consequently a special object by which it
is bound to this whole.

We have already said that every strategic act can be referred

to the idea of a combat, because it is an employment of the
military force, and at the root of that there always lies the idea
of fighting. We may therefore reduce every military activity
in the province of strategy to the unit of single combats, and
occupy ourselves with the object of these only; we shall get
acquainted with these special objects by degrees as we come
to speak of the causes which produce them; here we content
ourselves with saying that every combat, great or small, has
its own peculiar object in subordination to the main object. If
this is the case, then the destruction and conquest of the
enemy is only to be regarded as the means of gaining this
object; as it unquestionably is.

But this result is true only in its form, and important only on
account of the connection which the ideas have between
themselves, and we have only sought it out to get rid of it at
once.

What is overcoming the enemy? Invariably the destruction of

his military force, whether it be by death, or wounds, or any
means; whether it be completely or only to such a degree that
he can no longer continue the contest; therefore as long as we
set aside all special objects of combats, we may look upon the
complete or partial destruction of the enemy as the only
object of all combats.

Now we maintain that in the majority of cases, and especially

in great battles, the special object by which the battle is
individualised and bound up with the great whole is only a

308
weak modification of that general object, or an ancillary
object bound up with it, important enough to individualise the
battle, but always insignificant in comparison with that
general object; so that if that ancillary object alone should be
obtained, only an unimportant part of the purpose of the
combat is fulfilled. If this assertion is correct, then we see that
the idea, according to which the destruction of the enemy’s
force is only the means, and something else always the object,
can only be true in form, but, that it would lead to false
conclusions if we did not recollect that this destruction of the
enemy’s force is comprised in that object, and that this object
is only a weak modification of it.

Forgetfulness of this led to completely false views before the

wars of the last period, and created tendencies as well as
fragments of systems, in which theory thought it raised itself
so much the more above handicraft, the less it supposed itself
to stand in need of the use of the real instrument, that is the
destruction of the enemy’s force.

Certainly such a system could not have arisen unless

supported by other false suppositions, and unless in place of
the destruction of the enemy, other things had been
substituted to which an efficacy was ascribed which did not
rightly belong to them. We shall attack these falsehoods
whenever occasion requires, but we could not treat of the
combat without claiming for it the real importance and value
which belong to it, and giving warning against the errors to
which merely formal truth might lead.

But now how shall we manage to show that in most cases,

and in those of most importance, the destruction of the
enemy’s army is the chief thing? How shall we manage to

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combat that extremely subtle idea, which supposes it possible,
through the use of a special artificial form, to effect by a
small direct destruction of the enemy’s forces a much greater
destruction indirectly, or by means of small but extremely
well-directed blows to produce such paralysation of the
enemy’s forces, such a command over the enemy’s will, that
this mode of proceeding is to be viewed as a great shortening
of the road? Undoubtedly a victory at one point may be of
more value than at another. Undoubtedly there is a scientific
arrangement of battles amongst themselves, even in strategy,
which is in fact nothing but the art of thus arranging them. To
deny that is not our intention, but we assert that the direct
destruction of the enemy’s forces is everywhere predominant;
we contend here for the overruling importance of this
destructive principle and nothing else.

We must, however, call to mind that we are now engaged

with strategy, not with tactics, therefore we do not speak of
the means which the former may have of destroying at a small
expense a large body of the enemy’s forces, but that under
direct destruction we understand the tactical results, and that,
therefore, our assertion is that only great tactical results can
lead to great strategical ones, or, as we have already once
before more distinctly expressed it, the tactical successes are
of paramount importance in the conduct of war.

The proof of this assertion seems to us simple enough, it lies

in the time which every complicated (artificial) combination
requires. The question whether a simple attack, or one more
carefully prepared, i.e. more artificial, will produce greater
effects, may undoubtedly be decided in favour of the latter as
long as the enemy is assumed to remain quite passive. But
every carefully combined attack requires time for its

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preparation, and if a counterstroke by the enemy intervenes,
our whole design may be upset. Now if the enemy should
decide upon some simple attack, which can be executed in a
shorter time, then he gains the initiative, and destroys the
effect of the great plan. Therefore, together with the
expediency of a complicated attack we must consider all the
dangers which we run during its preparation, and should only
adopt it if there is no reason to fear that the enemy will
disconcert our scheme. Whenever this is the case we must
ourselves choose the simpler, i.e. quicker way, and lower our
views in this sense as far as the character, the relations of the
enemy, and other circumstances may render necessary. If we
quit the weak impressions of abstract ideas and descend to the
region of practical life, then it is evident that a bold,
courageous, resolute enemy will not let us have time for
wide-reaching skilful combinations, and it is just against such
a one we should require skill the most. By this it appears to us
that the advantage of simple and direct results over those that
are complicated is conclusively shown.

Our opinion is not on that account that the simple blow is the
best, but that we must not lift the arm too far for the time
given to strike, and that this condition will always lead more
to direct conflict the more warlike our opponent is. Therefore,
far from making it our aim to gain upon the enemy by
complicated plans, we must rather seek to be beforehand with
him by greater simplicity in our designs.

If we seek for the lowest foundation-stones of these converse

propositions we find that in the one it is ability, in the other,
courage. Now, there is something very attractive in the notion
that a moderate degree of courage joined to great ability will
produce greater effects than moderate ability with great

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courage. But unless we suppose these elements in a
disproportionate relation, not logical, we have no right to
assign to ability this advantage over courage in a field which
is called danger, and which must be regarded as the true
domain of courage.

After this abstract view we shall only add that experience,

very far from leading to a different conclusion, is rather the
sole cause which has impelled us in this direction, and given
rise to such reflections.

Whoever reads history with a mind free from prejudice

cannot fail to arrive at a conviction that of all military virtues,
energy in the conduct of operations has always contributed
the most to the glory and success of arms.

How we make good our principle of regarding the destruction

of the enemy’s force as the principal object, not only in the
war as a whole but also in each separate combat, and how that
principle suits all the forms and conditions necessarily
demanded by the relations out of which war springs, the
sequel will show. For the present all that we desire is to
uphold its general importance, and with this result we return
again to the combat.

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Chapter iv

The Combat in General (continuation)

In the last chapter we showed the destruction of the enemy as

the true object of the combat, and we have sought to prove by
a special consideration of the point, that this is true in the
majority of cases, and in respect to the most important battles,
because the destruction of the enemy’s army is always the
preponderating object in war. The other objects which may be
mixed up with this destruction of the enemy’s force, and may
have more or less influence, we shall describe generally in the
next chapter, and become better acquainted with by degrees
afterwards; here we divest the combat of them entirely, and
look upon the destruction of the enemy as the complete and
sufficient object of any combat.

What are we now to understand by destruction of the enemy’s

army? A diminution of it relatively greater than that on our
own side. If we have a great superiority in numbers over the
enemy, then naturally the same absolute amount of loss on
both sides is for us a smaller one than for him, and
consequently may be regarded in itself as an advantage. As
we are here considering the combat as divested of all (other)
objects, we must also exclude from our consideration the case
in which the combat is used only indirectly for a greater
destruction of the enemy’s force; consequently also, only that
direct gain which has been made in the mutual process of
destruction, is to be regarded as the object, for this is an
absolute gain, which runs through the whole campaign, and at
the end of it will always appear as pure profit. But every other
kind of victory over our opponent will either have its motive

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in other objects, which we have completely excluded here, or
it will only yield a temporary relative advantage. An example
will make this plain.

If by a skilful disposition we have reduced our opponent to

such a dilemma, that he cannot continue the combat without
danger, and after some resistance he retires, then we may say,
that we have conquered him at that point; but if in this victory
we have expended just as many forces as the enemy, then in
closing the account of the campaign, there is no gain
remaining from this victory, if such a result can be called a
victory. Therefore overcoming the enemy, that is, placing him
in such a position that he must give up the fight, counts for
nothing in itself, and for that reason cannot come under the
definition of object. There remains, therefore, as we have
said, nothing over except the direct gain which we have made
in the process of destruction; but to this belong not only the
losses which have taken place in the course of the combat, but
also those which, after the withdrawal of the conquered part,
take place as direct consequences of the same.

Now it is known by experience, that the losses in physical

forces in the course of a battle seldom present a great
difference between victor and vanquished respectively, often
none at all, sometimes even one bearing an inverse relation to
the result, and that the most decisive losses on the side of the
vanquished only commence with the retreat, that is, those
which the conqueror does not share with him. The weak
remains of battalions already in disorder are cut down by
cavalry, exhausted men strew the ground, disabled guns and
broken caissons are abandoned, others in the bad state of the
roads cannot be removed quickly enough, and are captured by
the enemy’s troops, during the night numbers lose their way,

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and fall defenceless into the enemy’s hands, and thus the
victory mostly gains bodily substance after it is already
decided. Here would be a paradox, if it did not solve itself in
the following manner.

The loss in physical force is not the only one which the two
sides suffer in the course of the combat; the moral forces also
are shaken, broken, and go to ruin. It is not only the loss in
men, horses and guns, but in order, courage, confidence,
cohesion and plan, which come into consideration when it is a
question whether the fight can be still continued or not. It is
principally the moral forces which decide here, and in all
cases in which the conqueror has lost as heavily as the
conquered it is these alone.

The comparative relation of the physical losses is difficult to

estimate in a battle, but not so the relation of the moral ones.
Two things principally make it known. The one is the loss of
the ground on which the fight has taken place, the other the
superiority of the enemy’s reserve. The more our reserves
have diminished as compared with those of the enemy, the
more force we have used to maintain the equilibrium; in this
at once an evident proof of the moral superiority of the enemy
is given which seldom fails to stir up in the soul of the
commander a certain bitterness of feeling, and a sort of
contempt for his own troops. But the principal thing is, that
men who have been engaged for a long continuance of time
are more or less like burnt-out cinders; their ammunition is
consumed; they have melted away to a certain extent;
physical and moral energies are exhausted, perhaps their
courage is broken as well. Such a force, irrespective of the
diminution in its number, if viewed as an organic whole, is
very different from what it was before the combat; and thus it

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is that the loss of moral force may be measured by the
reserves that have been used as if it were on a foot-rule.

Lost ground and want of fresh reserves, are, therefore, usually

the principal causes which determine a retreat; but at the same
time we by no means exclude or desire to throw in the shade
other reasons, which may lie in the interdependence of parts
of the army, in the general plan, etc.

Every combat is therefore the bloody and destructive

measuring of the strength of forces, physical and moral;
whoever at the close has the greatest amount of both left is the
conqueror.

In the combat the loss of moral force is the chief cause of the
decision; after that is given, this loss continues to increase
until it reaches its culminating-point at the close of the whole
act. This then is the opportunity the victor should seize to reap
his harvest by the utmost possible restrictions of his enemy’s
forces, the real object of engaging in the combat. On the
beaten side, the loss of all order and control often makes the
prolongation of resistance by individual units, by the further
punishment they are certain to suffer, more injurious than
useful to the whole. The spirit of the mass is broken; the
original excitement about losing or winning, through which
danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the majority danger
now appears no longer an appeal to their courage, but rather
the endurance of a cruel punishment. Thus the instrument in
the first moment of the enemy’s victory is weakened and
blunted, and therefore no longer fit to repay danger by danger.

This period, however, passes; the moral forces of the

conquered will recover by degrees, order will be restored,

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courage will revive, and in the majority of cases there remains
only a small part of the superiority obtained, often none at all.
In some cases, even, although rarely, the spirit of revenge and
intensified hostility may bring about an opposite result. On
the other hand, whatever is gained in killed, wounded,
prisoners, and guns captured can never disappear from the
account.

The losses in a battle consist more in killed and wounded;

those after the battle, more in artillery taken and prisoners.
The first the conqueror shares with the conquered, more or
less, but the second not; and for that reason they usually only
take place on one side of the conflict, at least, they are
considerably in excess on one side.

Artillery and prisoners are therefore at all times regarded as

the true trophies of victory, as well as its measure, because
through these things its extent is declared beyond a doubt.
Even the degree of moral superiority may be better judged of
by them than by any other relation, especially if the number
of killed and wounded is compared therewith; and here arises
a new power increasing the moral effects.

We have said that the moral forces, beaten to the ground in

battle and in the immediately succeeding movements, recover
themselves gradually, and often bear no traces of injury; this
is the case with small divisions of the whole, less frequently
with large divisions; it may, however, also be the case with
the main army, but seldom or never in the state or government
to which the army belongs. These estimate the situation more
impartially and from a more elevated point of view, and
recognise in the number of trophies taken by the enemy, and
their relation to the number of killed and wounded, only too

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easily and well, the measure of their own weakness and
inefficiency.

In point of fact, the lost balance of moral power must not be

treated lightly because it has no absolute value, and because it
does not of necessity appear in all cases in the amount of the
results at the final close; it may become of such excessive
weight as to bring down everything with an irresistible force.
On that account it may often become a great aim of the
operations of which we shall speak elsewhere. Here we have
still to examine some of its fundamental relations.

The moral effect of a victory increases, not merely in

proportion to the extent of the forces engaged, but in a
progressive ratio – that is to say, not only in extent, but also in
its intensity. In a beaten detachment order is easily restored.
As a single frozen limb is easily revived by the rest of the
body, so the courage of a defeated detachment is easily raised
again by the courage of the rest of the army as soon as it
rejoins it. If, therefore, the effects of a small victory are not
completely done away with, still they are partly lost to the
enemy. This is not the case if the army itself sustains a great
defeat; then one with the other fall together. A great fire
attains quite a different heat from several small ones.

Another relation which determines the moral value of a

victory is the numerical relation of the forces which have
been in conflict with each other. To beat many with few is not
only a double success, but shows also a greater, especially a
more general superiority, which the conquered must always
be fearful of encountering again. At the same time this
influence is in reality hardly observable in such a case. In the
moment of real action, the notions of the actual strength of the

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enemy are generally so uncertain, the estimate of our own
commonly so incorrect, that the party superior in numbers
either does not admit the disproportion, or is very far from
admitting the full truth, owing to which, he evades almost
entirely the moral disadvantages which would spring from it.
It is only hereafter in history that the truth, long suppressed
through ignorance, vanity, or a wise discretion, makes its
appearance, and then it certainly casts a lustre on the army
and its leader, but it can then do nothing more by its moral
influence for events long past.

If prisoners and captured guns are those things by which the

victory principally gains substance, its true crystallisations,
then the plan of the battle should have those things specially
in view; the destruction of the enemy by death and wounds
appears here merely as a means to an end.

How far this may influence the dispositions in the battle is not
an affair of strategy, but the decision to fight the battle is in
intimate connection with it, as is shown by the direction given
to our forces, and their general grouping, whether we threaten
the enemy’s flank or rear, or he threatens ours. On this point,
the number of prisoners and captured guns depends very
much, and it is a point which, in many cases, tactics alone
cannot satisfy, particularly if the strategic relations are too
much in opposition to it.

The risk of having to fight on two sides, and the still more
dangerous position of having no line of retreat left open,
paralyse the movements and the power of resistance; further,
in case of defeat, they increase the loss, often raising it to its
extreme point, that is, to destruction. Therefore, the rear being

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endangered makes defeat more probable, and, at the same
time, more decisive.

From this arises, in the whole conduct of the war, and

especially in great and small combats, a perfect instinct to
secure our own line of retreat and to seize that of the enemy;
this follows from the conception of victory, which, as we
have seen, is something beyond mere slaughter.

In this effort we see, therefore, the first immediate purpose in

the combat, and one which is quite universal. No combat is
imaginable in which this effort, either in its double or single
form, does not go hand in hand with the plain and simple
stroke of force. Even the smallest troop will not throw itself
upon its enemy without thinking of its line of retreat, and, in
most cases, it will have an eye upon that of the enemy also.

We should have to digress to show how often this instinct is

prevented from going the direct road, how often it must yield
to the difficulties arising from more important considerations:
we shall, therefore, rest contented with affirming it to be a
general natural law of the combat.

It is, therefore, active; presses everywhere with its natural

weight, and so becomes the pivot on which almost all tactical
and strategic manoeuvres turn.

If we now take a look at the conception of victory as a whole,

we find in it three elements:

1. The greater loss of the enemy in physical power.

2. In moral power.

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3. His open avowal of this by the relinquishment of his
intentions.

The returns made up on each side of losses in killed and

wounded, are never exact, seldom truthful, and in most cases,
full of intentional misrepresentations. Even the statement of
the number of trophies is seldom to be quite depended on;
consequently, when it is not considerable it may also cast a
doubt even on the reality of the victory. On the loss in moral
forces there is no reliable measure, except in the trophies:
therefore, in many cases, the giving up the contest is the only
real evidence of the victory. It is, therefore, to be regarded as
a confession of inferiority – as the lowering of the flag, by
which, in this particular instance, right and superiority are
conceded to the enemy, and this degree of humiliation and
disgrace, which, however, must be distinguished from all the
other moral consequences of the loss of equilibrium, is an
essential part of the victory. It is this part alone which acts
upon the public opinion outside the army, upon the people
and the government in both belligerent states, and upon all
others in any way concerned.

But renouncement of the general object is not quite identical

with quitting the field of battle, even when the battle has been
very obstinate and long kept up; no one says of advanced
posts, when they retire after an obstinate combat, that they
have given up their object; even in combats aimed at the
destruction of the enemy’s army, the retreat from the
battlefield is not always to be regarded as a relinquishment of
this aim, as for instance, in retreats planned beforehand, in
which the ground is disputed foot by foot; all this belongs to
that part of our subject where we shall speak of the separate
object of the combat; here we only wish to draw attention to

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the fact that in most cases the giving up of the object is very
difficult to distinguish from the retirement from the
battlefield, and that the impression produced by the latter,
both in and out of the army, is not to be treated lightly.

For generals and armies whose reputation is not made, this is

in itself one of the difficulties in many operations, justified by
circumstances when a succession of combats, each ending in
retreat, may appear as a succession of defeats, without being
so in reality, and when that appearance may exercise a very
depressing influence. It is impossible for the retreating
general by making known his real intentions to prevent the
moral effect spreading to the public and his troops, for to do
that with effect he must disclose his plans completely, which
of course would run counter to his principal interests to too
great a degree.

In order to draw attention to the special importance of this

conception of victory we shall only refer to the battle of Soor,
the trophies from which were not important (a few thousand
prisoners and twenty guns), and where Frederick proclaimed
his victory by remaining for five days after on the field of
battle, although his retreat into Silesia had been previously
determined on, and was a measure natural to his whole
situation. According to his own account, he thought he would
hasten a peace by the moral effect of his victory. Now
although a couple of other successes were likewise required,
namely, the battle of Katholisch Hennersdorf, in Lusatia, and
the battle of Kesseldorf, before this peace took place, still we
cannot say that the moral effect of the battle of Soor was nil.

If it is chiefly the moral force which is shaken by defeat, and

if the number of trophies reaped by the enemy mounts up to

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an unusual height, then the lost combat becomes a rout, but
this is not the necessary consequence of every victory. A rout
only sets in when the moral force of the defeated is very
severely shaken; then there often ensues a complete
incapability of further resistance, and the whole action
consists of giving way, that is of flight.

Jena and Belle Alliance were routs, but not so Borodino.

Although without pedantry we can here give no single line of

separation, because the difference between the things is one
of degrees, yet still the retention of the conception is essential
as a central point to give clearness to our theoretical ideas;
and it is a want in our terminology that for a victory over the
enemy tantamount to a rout, and a conquest of the enemy only
tantamount to a simple victory, there is only one and the same
word to use.

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Chapter v

On the Signification of the Combat

Having in the preceding chapter examined the combat in its

absolute form, as the miniature picture of the whole war, we
now turn to the relations which it bears to the other parts of
the great whole. First we inquire what is more precisely the
signification of a combat.

As war is nothing else but a mutual process of destruction,

then the most natural answer in conception, and perhaps also
in reality, appears to be that all the powers of each party unite
in one great volume and all results in one great shock of these
masses. There is certainly much truth in this idea, and it
seems to be very advisable that we should adhere to it and
should on that account look upon small combats at first only
as necessary loss, like the shavings from a carpenter’s plane.
Still, however, the thing cannot be settled so easily.

That a multiplication of combats should arise from a

fractioning of forces is a matter of course, and the more
immediate objects of separate combats will therefore come
before us in the subject of a fractioning of forces; but these
objects, and together with them, the whole mass of combats
may in a general way be brought under certain classes, and
the knowledge of these classes will contribute to make our
observations more intelligible.

Destruction of the enemy’s military forces is in reality the

object of all combats; but other objects may be joined thereto
and these other objects may be at the same time predominant;

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we must therefore draw a distinction between those in which
the destruction of the enemy’s forces is the principal object,
and those in which it is more the means. The destruction of
the enemy’s force, the possession of a place or the possession
of some object may be the general motive for a combat, and it
may be either one of these alone or several together, in which
case however usually one is the principal motive. Now the
two principal forms of war, the offensive and defensive, of
which we shall shortly speak, do not modify the first of these
motives but they certainly do modify the other two, and
therefore if we arrange them in a scheme they would appear
thus:

Offensive

1. destruction of enemy’s force

2. conquest of a place

3. conquest of some object

Defensive

1. destruction of enemy’s force

2. defence of a place

3. defence of some object

These motives, however, do not seem to embrace completely

the whole of the subject, if we recollect that there are
reconnaissances and demonstrations, in which plainly none of
these three points is the object of the combat. In reality we

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must, therefore, on this account be allowed a fourth class.
Strictly speaking, in reconnaissances in which we wish the
enemy to show himself, in alarms by which we wish to wear
him out, in demonstrations by which we wish to prevent his
leaving some point or to draw him off to another, the objects
are all such as can only be attained indirectly and under the
pretext of one of the three objects specified in the table,
usually of the second; for the enemy whose aim is to
reconnoitre must draw up his force as if he really intended to
attack and defeat us, or drive us off, etc., etc. But this
pretended object is not the real one, and our present question
is only as to the latter; therefore, we must to the above three
objects of the offensive further add a fourth, which is to lead
the enemy to make a false conclusion. That offensive means
only are conceivable in connection with this object, lies in the
nature of the thing.

On the other hand we must observe that the defence of a place

may be of two kinds, either absolute, if as a general question
the point is not to be given up, or relative, if it is only required
for a certain time. The latter happens perpetually in the
combats of advanced posts and rear guards.

That the nature of these different intentions of a combat must

have an essential influence on the dispositions which are its
preliminaries, is a thing clear in itself. We act differently if
our object is merely to drive an enemy’s post out of its place
from what we should if our object was to beat him
completely; differently, if we mean to defend a place to the
last extremity from what we should do if our design is only to
detain the enemy for a certain time. In the first case we
trouble ourselves little about the line of retreat, in the latter it
is the principal point, etc.

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But these reflections belong properly to tactics, and are only
introduced here by way of example for the sake of greater
clearness. What strategy has to say on the different objects of
the combat will appear in the chapters which touch upon these
objects. Here we have only a few general observations to
make, first, that the importance of the object decreases nearly
in the order as they stand above, therefore, that the first of
these objects must always predominate in the great battle;
lastly, that the two last in a defensive battle are in reality such
as yield no fruit, they are, that is to say, purely negative, and
can, therefore, only be serviceable, indirectly, by facilitating
something else which is positive. It is, therefore, a bad sign of
the strategic situation if battles of this kind become too
frequent.

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Chapter vi

Duration of Combat

If we consider the combat no longer in itself but in relation to

the other forces of war, then its duration acquires a special
importance.

This duration is to be regarded to a certain extent as a second

subordinate success. For the conqueror the combat can never
be finished too quickly, for the vanquished it can never last
too long. A speedy victory indicates a higher power of
victory, a tardy decision is, on the side of the defeated, some
compensation for the loss.

This is in general true, but it acquires a practical importance

in its application to those combats, the object of which is a
relative defence.

Here the whole success often lies in the mere duration. This is
the reason why we have included it amongst the strategic
elements.

The duration of a combat is necessarily bound up with its

essential relations. These relations are, absolute magnitude of
force, relation of force and (of the different) arms mutually,
and nature of the country. Twenty thousand men do not wear
themselves out upon one another as quickly as two thousand:
we cannot resist an enemy double or three times our strength
as long as one of the same strength; a cavalry combat is
decided sooner than an infantry combat; and a combat
between infantry only, quicker than if there is artillery as

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well; in hills and forests we cannot advance as quickly as on a
level country; all this is clear enough.

From this it follows, therefore, that strength, relation of the

three arms, and position, must be considered if the combat is
to fulfil an object by its duration; but to set up this rule was of
less importance to us in our present considerations than to
connect with it at once the chief results which experience
gives us on the subject.

Even the resistance of an ordinary division of 8,000 to 10,000

men of all arms even opposed to an enemy considerably
superior in numbers, will last several hours, if the advantages
of country are not too preponderating, and if the enemy is
only a little, or not at all, superior in numbers, the combat will
last half a day. A corps of three or four divisions will prolong
it to double the time; an army of 80,000 or 100,000 to three or
four times. Therefore the masses may be left to themselves
for that length of time, and no separate combat takes place if
within that time other forces can be brought up, whose
co-operation mingles then at once into one stream with the
results of the combat which has taken place.

These calculations are the result of experience; but it is

important to us at the same time to characterise more
particularly the moment of the decision, and consequently the
termination.

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Chapter vii

Decision of the Combat

No battle is decided in a single moment, although in every

battle there arise moments of crisis, on which the result
depends. The loss of a battle is, therefore, a gradual falling of
the scale. But there is in every combat a point of time when it
may be regarded as decided, in such a way that the renewal of
the fight would be a new battle, not a continuation of the old
one. To have a clear notion on this point of time, is very
important, in order to be able to decide whether, with the
prompt assistance of reinforcements, the combat can again be
resumed with advantage.

Often in combats which are beyond restoration new forces are

sacrificed in vain; often through neglect the decision has not
been seized when it might easily have been secured. Here are
two examples, which could not be more to the point:

When the Prince of Hohenlohe, in 1806, at Jena, with 35,000

men opposed to from 60,000 to 70,000, under Bonaparte, had
accepted battle, and lost it – but lost it in such a way that the
35,000 might be regarded as dissolved – General Rüchel
undertook to renew the fight with about 12,000; the
consequence was that in a moment his force was scattered in
like manner.

On the other hand, on the same day at Auerstadt, the

Prussians maintained a combat with 25,000, against Davoust,
who had 28,000, until midday, without success, it is true, but
still without the force being reduced to a state of dissolution

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without even greater loss than the enemy, who was very
deficient in cavalry; but they neglected to use the reserve of
18,000, under General Kalkreuth, to restore the battle which,
under these circumstances, it would have been impossible to
lose.

Each combat is a whole in which the partial combats combine

themselves into one total result. In this total result lies the
decision of the combat. This success need not be exactly a
victory such as we have denoted in the sixth chapter, for often
the preparations for that have not been made, often there is no
opportunity if the enemy gives way too soon, and in most
cases the decision, even when the resistance has been
obstinate, takes place before such a degree of success was
attained as would completely satisfy the idea of a victory.

We therefore ask, Which is commonly the moment of the

decision, that was to say, that moment when a fresh, effective,
of course not disproportionate, force, can no longer turn a
disadvantageous battle?

If we pass over false attacks, which in accordance with their

nature are properly without decision, then

1. If the possession of a movable object was the object of the

combat, the loss of the same is always the decision.

2. If the possession of ground was the object of the combat,

then the decision generally lies in its loss. Still not always,
only if this ground is of peculiar strength, ground which is
easy to pass over, however important it may be in other
respects, can be re-taken without much danger.

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3. But in all other cases, when these two circumstances have
not already decided the combat, therefore, particularly in case
the destruction of the enemy’s force is the principal object,
the decision is reached at that moment when the conqueror
ceases to feel himself in a state of disintegration, that is, of
unserviceableness to a certain extent, when therefore, there is
no further advantage in using the successive efforts spoken of
in the twelfth chapter of the third book. On this ground we
have given the strategic unity of the battle its place here.

A battle, therefore, in which the assailant has not lost his

condition of order and perfect efficiency at all, or, at least,
only in a small part of his force, whilst the opposing forces
are, more or less, disorganised throughout, is also not to be
retrieved; and just as little if the enemy has recovered his
efficiency.

The smaller, therefore, that part of a force is which has really

been engaged, the greater that portion which as reserve has
contributed to the result only by its presence, so much the less
will any new force of the enemy wrest again the victory from
our hands, and that commander who carries out to the furthest
with his army the principle of conducting the combat with the
greatest economy of forces, and making the most of the moral
effect of strong reserves, goes the surest way to victory. We
must allow that the French, in modern times, especially when
led by Bonaparte, have shown a thorough mastery in this.

Further, the moment when the crisis-stage of the combat

ceases with the conqueror, and his original state of order is
restored, takes place sooner the smaller the unit he controls. A
picket of cavalry pursuing an enemy at full gallop will in a
few minutes resume its proper order, and the crisis ceases: a

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whole regiment of cavalry requires a longer time; it lasts still
longer with infantry, if extended in single lines of
skirmishers, and longer again with divisions of all arms, when
it happens by chance that one part has taken one direction and
another part another direction, and the combat has therefore
caused a loss of the order of formation, which usually
becomes still worse from no part knowing exactly where the
other is. Thus, therefore, the point of time when the conqueror
has collected the instruments he has been using, and which
are mixed up and partly out of order, the moment when he has
in some measure rearranged them and put them in their proper
places, and thus brought the battle-workshop into a little
order, this moment, we say, is always later, the greater the
total force.

Again, this moment comes later if night overtakes the

conqueror in the crisis, and, lastly, it comes later still if the
country is broken and thickly wooded. But with regard to
these two points, we must observe that night is also a great
means of protection, and it is only seldom that circumstances
favour the expectation of a successful result from a night
attack, as on 10 March 1814, at Laon, where York against
Marmont gives us an example completely in place here. In the
same way a wooded and broken country will afford protection
against a reaction to those who are engaged in the long crisis
of victory. Both, therefore, the night as well as the wooded
and broken country are obstacles which make the renewal of
the same battle more difficult instead of facilitating it.

Hitherto, we have considered assistance arriving for the

losing side as a mere increase of force, therefore, as a
reinforcement coming up directly from the rear, which is the

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most usual case. But the case is quite different if these fresh
forces come upon the enemy in flank or rear.

On the effect of flank or rear attacks so far as they belong to

strategy, we shall speak in another place: such a one as we
have here in view, intended for the restoration of the combat,
belongs chiefly to tactics, and is only mentioned because we
are here speaking of tactical results; our ideas, therefore, must
trench upon the province of tactics.

By directing a force against the enemy’s flank and rear its

efficacy may be much intensified; but this is so far from being
a necessary result always that the efficacy may, on the other
hand, be just as much weakened. The circumstances under
which the combat has taken place decide upon the part of the
plan as well as upon every other, without our being able to
enter thereupon here. But, at the same time, there are in it two
things of importance for our subject: first, flank and rear
attacks have, as a rule, a more favourable effect on the
consequences of the decision than upon the decision itself.
Now as concerns the retrieving a battle, the first thing to be
arrived at above all is a favourable decision and not
magnitude of success. In this view one would therefore think
that a force which comes to re-establish our combat is of less
assistance if it falls upon the enemy in flank and rear,
therefore separated from us, than if it joins itself to us
directly; certainly, cases are not wanting where it is so, but we
must say that the majority are on the other side, and they are
so on account of the second point which is here important to
us.

This second point is the moral effect of the surprise, which, as

a rule, a reinforcement coming up to re-establish a combat has

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generally in its favour. Now the effect of a surprise is always
heightened if it takes place in the flank or rear, and an enemy
completely engaged in the crisis of victory in his extended
and scattered order, is less in a state to counteract it. Who
does not feel that an attack in flank or rear, which at the
commencement of the battle, when the forces are
concentrated and prepared for such an event would be of little
importance, gains quite another weight in the last moment of
the combat?

We must, therefore, at once admit that in most cases a

reinforcement coming up on the flank or rear of the enemy
will be more efficacious, will be like the same weight at the
end of a longer lever, and therefore that under these
circumstances, we may undertake to restore the battle with the
same force which employed in a direct attack would be quite
insufficient. Here results almost defy calculation, because the
moral forces gain completely the ascendancy. This is
therefore the right field for boldness and daring.

The eye must, therefore, be directed on all these objects, all

these moments of co-operating forces must be taken into
consideration, when we have to decide in doubtful cases
whether or not it is still possible to restore a combat which
has taken an unfavourable turn.

If the combat is to be regarded as not yet ended, then the new

contest which is opened by the arrival of assistance fuses into
the former; therefore they flow together into one common
result; and the first disadvantage vanishes completely out of
the calculation. But this was not the case if the combat was
already decided; then there are two results separate from each
other. Now if the assistance which arrives is only of a relative

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strength, that is, if it is not in itself alone a match for the
enemy, then a favourable result is hardly to be expected from
this second combat: but if it is so strong that it can undertake
the second combat without regard to the first, then it may be
able by a favourable issue to compensate or even overbalance
the first combat, but never to make it disappear altogether
from the account.

At the battle of Kunersdorf, Frederick the Great at the first

onset carried the left of the Russian position, and took seventy
pieces of artillery; at the end of the battle both were lost
again, and the whole result of the first combat was wiped out
of the account. Had it been possible to stop at the first
success, and to put off the second part of the battle to the
coming day, then, even if the King had lost it, the advantages
of the first would always have been a set off to the second.

But when a battle proceeding disadvantageously is arrested

and turned before its conclusion, its minus result on our side
not only disappears from the account, but also becomes the
foundation of a greater victory. If, for instance, we picture to
ourselves exactly the tactical course of the battle, we may
easily see that until it is finally concluded all successes in
partial combats are only decisions in suspense, which by the
capital decision may not only be destroyed, but changed into
the opposite. The more our forces have suffered, the more the
enemy will have expended on his side; the greater, therefore,
will be the crisis for the enemy, and the more the superiority
of our fresh troops will tell. If now the total result turns in our
favour, if we wrest from the enemy the field of battle and
recover all the trophies again, then all the forces which he has
sacrificed in obtaining them become sheer gain for us, and
our former defeat becomes a stepping-stone to a greater

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triumph. The most brilliant feats which with victory the
enemy would have so highly prized that the loss of forces
which they cost would have been disregarded, leave nothing
now behind but regret at the sacrifice entailed. Such is the
alteration which the magic of victory and the curse of defeat
produces in the specific weight of the same elements.

Therefore, even if we are decidedly superior in strength, and

are able to repay the enemy his victory by a greater still, it is
always better to forestall the conclusion of a disadvantageous
combat, if it is of proportionate importance, so as to turn its
course rather than to deliver a second battle.

Field-Marshal Daun attempted in the year 1760 to come to the

assistance of General Laudon at Liegnitz, whilst the battle
lasted; but when he failed, he did not attack the King next
day, although he did not want for means to do so.

For these reasons serious combats of advance guards which

precede a battle are to be looked upon only as necessary evils,
and when not necessary they are to be avoided.

We have still another conclusion to examine.

If on a regular pitched battle, the decision has gone against

one, this does not constitute a motive for determining on a
new one. The determination for this new one must proceed
from other relations. This conclusion, however, is opposed by
a moral force, which we must take into account: it is the
feeling of rage and revenge. From the oldest field-marshal to
the youngest drummer-boy this feeling is general, and,
therefore, troops are never in better spirits for fighting than
when they have to wipe out a stain. This is, however, only on

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the supposition that the beaten portion is not too great in
proportion to the whole, because otherwise the above feeling
is lost in that of powerlessness.

There is therefore a very natural tendency to use this moral

force to repair the disaster on the spot, and on that account
chiefly to seek another battle if other circumstances permit. It
then lies in the nature of the case that this second battle must
be an offensive one.

In the catalogue of battles of second-rate importance there are

many examples to be found of such retaliatory battles; but
great battles have generally too many other determining
causes to be brought on by this weaker motive.

Such a feeling must undoubtedly have led the noble Blücher

with his third Corps to the field of battle on 14 February
1814, when the other two had been beaten three days before
at Montmirail. Had he known that he would have come upon
Bonaparte in person, then, naturally, preponderating reasons
would have determined him to put off his revenge to another
day: but he hoped to revenge himself on Marmont, and
instead of gaining the reward of his desire for honourable
satisfaction, he suffered the penalty of his erroneous
calculation.

On the duration of the combat and the moment of its decision

depend the distances from each other at which those masses
should be placed which are intended to fight in conjunction
with each other. This disposition would be a tactical
arrangement in so far as it relates to one and the same battle;
it can, however, only be regarded as such, provided the
position of the troops is so compact that two separate combats

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cannot be imagined, and consequently that the space which
the whole occupies can be regarded strategically as a mere
point. But in war, cases frequently occur where even those
forces intended to fight in unison must be so far separated
from each other that while their union for one common
combat certainly remains the principal object, still the
occurrence of separate combats remains possible. Such a
disposition is therefore strategic.

Dispositions of this kind are: marches in separate masses and

columns, the formation of advance guards, and flanking
columns, also the grouping of reserves intended to serve as
supports for more than one strategic point; the concentration
of several corps from widely extended cantonments, etc., etc.
We can see that the necessity for these arrangements may
constantly arise, and may consider them something like the
small change in the strategic economy, whilst the capital
battles, and all that rank with them are the gold and silver
pieces.

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Chapter viii

Mutual Understanding as to a Battle

No battle can take place unless by mutual consent; and in this

idea, which constitutes the whole basis of a duel, was the root
of a certain phraseology used by historical writers, which
leads to many indefinite and false conceptions.

According to the view of the writers to whom we refer, it has

frequently happened that one commander has offered battle to
the other, and the latter has not accepted it.

But the battle is a very modified duel, and its foundation is

not merely in the mutual wish to fight, that is in consent, but
in the objects which are bound up with the battle: these
belong always to a greater whole, and that so much the more,
as even the whole war considered as a ‘combat-unit’ has
political objects and conditions which belong to a higher
standpoint. The mere desire to conquer each other therefore
falls into quite a subordinate relation, or rather it ceases
completely to be anything of itself, and only becomes the
nerve which conveys the impulse of action from the higher
will.

Amongst the ancients, and then again during the early period
of standing armies, the expression that we had offered battle
to the enemy in vain, had more sense in it than it has now. By
the ancients everything was constituted with a view to
measuring each other’s strength in the open field free from
anything in the nature of a hindrance, and the whole art of

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war consisted in the organisation and formation of the army,
that is in the order of battle.

Now as their armies regularly entrenched themselves in their

camps, therefore the position in a camp was regarded as
something unassailable, and a battle did not become possible
until the enemy left his camp, and placed himself in a
practicable country, as it were entered the lists.

If therefore we hear about Hannibal having offered battle to

Fabius in vain, that tells us nothing more as regards the latter
than that a battle was not part of his plan, and in itself neither
proves the physical nor moral superiority of Hannibal; but
with respect to him the expression is still correct enough in
the sense that Hannibal really wished a battle.

In the early period of modern armies, the relations were

similar in great combats and battles. That is to say, great
masses were brought into action, and managed throughout it
by means of an order of battle, which like a great helpless
whole required a more or less level plain and was neither
suited to attack, nor yet to defence in a broken, close or even
mountainous country. The defender therefore had here also to
some extent the means of avoiding battle. These relations
although gradually becoming modified, continued until the
first Silesian War, and it was not until the Seven Years’ War
that attacks on an enemy posted in a difficult country
gradually became feasible, and of ordinary occurrence:
ground did not certainly cease to be a principle of strength to
those making use of its aid, but it was no longer a charmed
circle, which shut out the natural forces of war.

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During the past thirty years war has perfected itself much
more in this respect, and there is no longer anything which
stands in the way of a general who is in earnest about a
decision by means of battle; he can seek out his enemy, and
attack him: if he does not do so he cannot take credit for
having wished to fight, and the expression ‘he offered a battle
which his opponent did not accept’, therefore now means
nothing more than that he did not find circumstances
advantageous enough for a battle, an admission which the
above expression does not suit, but which it only strives to
throw a veil over.

It is true the defensive side can no longer refuse a battle, yet

he may still avoid it by giving up his position, and the role
with which that position was connected: this is however half a
victory for the offensive side, and an acknowledgement of his
superiority for the present.

This idea in connection with the cartel of defiance can

therefore no longer be made use of in order by such
rhodomontade to qualify the inaction of him whose part it is
to advance, that is, the offensive. The defender who as long as
he does not give way, must have the credit of willing the
battle, may certainly say, he has offered it if he is not
attacked, if that is not understood of itself.

But on the other hand, he who now wishes to, and can retreat
cannot easily be forced to give battle. Now as the advantages
to the aggressor from this retreat are often not sufficient, and
a substantial victory is a matter of urgent necessity for him, in
that way the few means which there are to compel such an
opponent also to give battle are often sought for and applied
with particular skill.

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The principal means for this are – first surrounding the enemy
so as to make his retreat impossible, or at least so difficult
that it is better for him to accept battle; and, secondly,
surprising him. This last way, for which there was a motive
formerly in the extreme difficulty of all movements, has
become in modern times very inefficacious. From the
pliability and manoeuvring capabilities of troops in the
present day, one does not hesitate to commence a retreat even
in sight of the enemy, and only some special obstacles in the
nature of the country can cause serious difficulties in the
operation.

As an example of this kind the battle of Neresheim may be

given, fought by the Archduke Charles with Moreau in the
Rauhe Alp, 11 August 1796, merely with a view to facilitate
his retreat, although we freely confess we have never been
able quite to understand the argument of the renowned
general and author himself in this case.

The battle of Rosbach is another example, if we suppose the

commander of the allied army had not really the intention of
attacking Frederick the Great.

Of the battle of Soor, the King himself says that it was only
fought because a retreat in the presence of the enemy
appeared to him a critical operation; at the same time the
King has also given other reasons for the battle.

On the whole, regular night surprises excepted, such cases

will always be of rare occurrence, and those in which an
enemy is compelled to fight by being practically surrounded,
will happen mostly to single corps only, like Mortier’s at
Dürrenstein, 1809, and Vandamme at Kulm, 1813.

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Chapter ix

The Battle

Its Decision

What is a battle? A conflict of the main body, but not an

unimportant one about a secondary object, not a mere attempt
which is given up when we see betimes that our object is
hardly within our reach: it is a conflict waged with all our
forces for the attainment of a decisive victory.

Minor objects may also be mixed up with the principal object,

and it will take many different tones of colour from the
circumstances out of which it originates, for a battle belongs
also to a greater whole of which it is only a part, but because
the essence of war is conflict, and the battle is the conflict of
the main armies, it is always to be regarded as the real centre
of gravity of the war, and therefore its distinguishing
character is, that unlike all other encounters, it is arranged for,
and undertaken with the sole purpose of obtaining a decisive
victory.

This has an influence on the manner of its decision, on the

effect of the victory contained in it, and determines the value
which theory is to assign to it as a means to an end. On that
account we make it the subject of our special consideration,
and at this stage before we enter upon the special ends which
may be bound up with it, but which do not essentially alter its
character if it really deserves to be termed a battle.

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If a battle takes place principally on its own account, the
elements of its decision must be contained in itself; in other
words, victory must be striven for as long as a possibility or
hope remains. It must not, therefore, be given up on account
of secondary circumstances, but only and alone in the event
of the forces appearing completely insufficient.

Now how is that precise moment to be described?

If a certain artificial formation and cohesion of an army is the

principal condition under which the bravery of the troops can
gain a victory, as was the case during a great part of the
period of the modern art of war, then the breaking up of this
formation is the decision. A beaten wing which is put out of
joint decides the fate of all that was connected with it. If as
was the case at another time the essence of the defence
consists in an intimate alliance of the army with the ground
on which it fights and its obstacles, so that army and position
are only one, then the conquest of an essential point in this
position is the decision. It is said the key of that position is
lost, it cannot therefore be defended any further; the battle
cannot be continued. In both cases the beaten armies are very
much like the broken strings of an instrument which cannot
do their work.

That geometrical as well as this geographical principle which

had a tendency to place an army in a state of crystallising
tension which did not allow of the available powers being
made use of up to the last man, have at least so far lost their
influence that they no longer predominate. Armies are still led
into battle in a certain order, but that order is no longer of
decisive importance; obstacles of ground are also still turned

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to account to strengthen a position, but they are no longer the
only support.

We attempted in the second chapter of this book to take a

general view of the nature of the modern battle. According to
our conception of it, the order of battle is only a disposition of
the forces suitable to the convenient use of them, and the
course of the battle a mutual slow wearing away of these
forces upon one another, to see which will have soonest
exhausted his adversary.

The resolution therefore to give up the fight arises, in a battle

more than in any other combat, from the relation of the fresh
reserves remaining available; for only these still retain all
their moral vigour, and the cinders of the battered,
knocked-about battalions, already burnt out in the destroying
element, must not be placed on a level with them; also lost
ground as we have elsewhere said, is a standard of lost moral
force; it therefore comes also into account, but more as a sign
of loss suffered than for the loss itself, and the number of
fresh reserves is always the chief point to be looked at by both
commanders.

In general, an action inclines in one direction from the very

commencement, but in a manner little observable. This
direction is also frequently given in a very decided manner by
the arrangements which have been made previously, and then
it shows a want of discernment in that general who
commences battle under these unfavourable circumstances
without being aware of them. Even when this does not occur
it lies in the nature of things that the course of a battle
resembles rather a slow disturbance of equilibrium which
commences soon, but as we have said almost imperceptibly at

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first, and then with each moment of time becomes stronger
and more visible, than an oscillating to and fro, as those who
are misled by mendacious descriptions usually suppose.

But whether it happens that the balance is for a long time little
disturbed, or that even after it has been lost on one side it
rights itself again, and is then lost on the other side, it is
certain at all events that in most instances the defeated general
foresees his fate long before he retreats, and that cases in
which some critical event acts with unexpected force upon the
course of the whole have their existence mostly in the
colouring with which everyone depicts his lost battle.

We can only here appeal to the decision of unprejudiced men

of experience, who will, we are sure, assent to what we have
said, and answer for us to such of our readers as do not know
war from their own experience. To develop the necessity of
this course from the nature of the thing would lead us too far
into the province of tactics, to which this branch of the subject
belongs; we are here only concerned with its results.

If we say that the defeated general foresees the unfavourable

result usually some time before he makes up his mind to give
up the battle, we admit that there are also instances to the
contrary, because otherwise we should maintain a proposition
contradictory in itself. If at the moment of each decisive
tendency of a battle it should be considered as lost, then also
no further forces should be used to give it a turn, and
consequently this decisive tendency could not precede the
retreat by any length of time. Certainly there are instances of
battles which after having taken a decided turn to one side
have still ended in favour of the other; but they are rare, not
usual; these exceptional cases, however, are reckoned upon

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by every general against whom fortune declares itself, and he
must reckon upon them as long as there remains a possibility
of a turn of fortune. He hopes by stronger efforts, by raising
the remaining moral forces, by surpassing himself, or also by
some fortunate chance that the next moment will bring a
change, and pursues this as far as his courage and his
judgement can agree. We shall have something more to say
on this subject, but before that we must show what are the
signs of the scales turning.

The result of the whole combat consists in the sum total of the
results of all partial combats; but these results of separate
combats are settled by different considerations.

First by the pure moral power in the mind of the leading

officers. If a general of division has seen his battalions forced
to succumb, it will have an influence on his demeanour and
his reports, and these again will have an influence on the
measures of the commander-in-chief; therefore even those
unsuccessful partial combats which to all appearance are
retrieved, are not lost in their results, and the impressions
from them sum themselves up in the mind of the commander
without much trouble, and even against his will.

Secondly, by the quicker melting away of our troops, which

can be easily estimated in the slow and relatively little
tumultuary course of our battles.

Thirdly, by lost ground.

All these things serve for the eye of the general as a compass
to tell the course of the battle in which he is embarked. If
whole batteries have been lost and none of the enemy’s taken;

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if battalions have been overthrown by the enemy’s cavalry,
whilst those of the enemy everywhere present impenetrable
masses; if the line of fire from his order of battle wavers
involuntarily from one point to another; if fruitless efforts
have been made to gain certain points, and the assaulting
battalions each time been scattered by well-directed volleys of
grape and case; if our artillery begins to reply feebly to that of
the enemy – if the battalions under fire diminish unusually
fast, because with the wounded crowds of unwounded men go
to the rear; if single divisions have been cut off and made
prisoners through the disruption of the plan of the battle; if
the line of retreat begins to be endangered: the commander
may tell very well in which direction he is going with his
battle. The longer this direction continues, the more decided it
becomes, so much the more difficult will be the turning, so
much the nearer the moment when he must give up the battle.
We shall now make some observations on this moment.

We have already said more than once that the final decision is
ruled mostly by the relative number of the fresh reserves
remaining at the last; that commander who sees his adversary
is decidedly superior to him in this respect makes up his mind
to retreat. It is the characteristic of modern battles that all
mischances and losses which take place in the course of the
same can be retrieved by fresh forces, because the
arrangement of the modern order of battle, and the way in
which troops are brought into action, allow of their use almost
generally, and in each position. So long, therefore, as that
commander against whom the issue seems to declare itself
still retains a superiority in reserve force, he will not give up
the day. But from the moment that his reserves begin to
become weaker than his enemy’s, the decision may be
regarded as settled, and what he now does depends partly on

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special circumstances, partly on the degree of courage and
perseverance which he personally possesses, and which may
degenerate into foolish obstinacy. How a commander can
attain to the power of estimating correctly the still remaining
reserves on both sides is an affair of skilful practical genius,
which does not in any way belong to this place; we keep
ourselves to the result as it forms itself in his mind. But this
conclusion is still not the moment of decision properly, for a
motive which only arises gradually does not answer to that,
but is only a general motive towards resolution, and the
resolution itself requires still some special immediate causes.
Of these there are two chief ones which constantly recur, that
is, the danger of retreat, and the arrival of night.

If the retreat with every new step which the battle takes in its
course becomes constantly in greater danger, and if the
reserves are so much diminished that they are no longer
adequate to get breathing room, then there is nothing left but
to submit to fate, and by a well-conducted retreat to save
what, by a longer delay ending in flight and disaster, would
be lost.

But night as a rule puts an end to all battles, because a night

combat holds out no hope of advantage except under
particular circumstances; and as night is better suited for a
retreat than the day, so, therefore, the commander who must
look at the retreat as a thing inevitable, or as most probable,
will prefer to make use of the night for his purpose.

That there are, besides the above two usual and chief causes,
yet many others also, which are less or more individual and
not to be overlooked, is a matter of course; for the more a
battle tends towards a complete upset of equilibrium the more

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sensible is the influence of each partial result in hastening the
turn. Thus the loss of a battery, a successful charge of a
couple of regiments of cavalry, may call into life the
resolution to retreat already ripening.

As a conclusion to this subject, we must dwell for a moment

on the point at which the courage of the commander engages
in a sort of conflict with his reason.

If on the one hand the overbearing pride of a victorious

conqueror, if the inflexible will of a naturally obstinate spirit,
if the strenuous resistance of noble feelings will not yield the
battlefield, where they must leave their honour, yet on the
other hand, reason counsels not to give up everything, not to
risk the last upon the game, but to retain as much over as is
necessary for an orderly retreat. However highly we must
esteem courage and firmness in war, and however little
prospect there is of victory to him who cannot resolve to seek
it by the exertion of all his power, still there is a point beyond
which perseverance can only be termed desperate folly, and
therefore can meet with no approbation from any critic. In the
most celebrated of all battles, that of Belle-Alliance,
Bonaparte used his last reserve in an effort to retrieve a battle
which was past being retrieved. He spent his last farthing, and
then, as a beggar, abandoned both the battlefield and his
crown.

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Chapter x

Effects of Victory

According to the point from which our view is taken, we may

feel as much astonished at the extraordinary results of some
great battles as at the want of results in others. We shall dwell
for a moment on the nature of the effect of a great victory.

Three things may easily be distinguished here: the effect upon

the instrument itself, that is, upon the generals and their
armies; the effect upon the states interested in the war; and
the particular result of these effects as manifested in the
subsequent course of the campaign.

If we only think of the trifling difference which there usually

is between victor and vanquished in killed, wounded,
prisoners, and artillery lost on the field of battle itself, the
consequences which are developed out of this insignificant
point seem often quite incomprehensible, and yet, usually,
everything only happens quite naturally.

We have already said in the seventh chapter that the

magnitude of a victory increases not merely in the same
measure as the vanquished forces increase in number, but in a
higher ratio. The moral effects resulting from the issue of a
great battle are greater on the side of the conquered than on
that of the conqueror: they lead to greater losses in physical
force, which then in turn react on the moral element, and so
they go on mutually supporting and intensifying each other.
On this moral effect we must therefore lay special weight. It
takes an opposite direction on the one side from that on the

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other; as it undermines the energies of the conquered so it
elevates the powers and energy of the conqueror. But its chief
effect is upon the vanquished, because here it is the direct
cause of fresh losses, and besides it is homogeneous in nature
with danger, with the fatigues, the hardships, and generally
with all those embarrassing circumstances by which war is
surrounded, therefore enters into league with them and
increases by their help, whilst with the conqueror all these
things are like weights which give a higher swing to his
courage. It is therefore found, that the vanquished sinks much
further below the original line of equilibrium than the
conqueror raises himself above it; on this account, if we speak
of the effects of victory we allude more particularly to those
which manifest themselves in the vanquished army. If this
effect is more powerful in an important combat than in a
smaller one, so again it is much more powerful in a great
battle than in a minor one. The great battle takes place for the
sake of itself, for the sake of the victory which it is to give,
and which is sought for with the utmost effort. Here on this
spot, in this very hour, to conquer the enemy is the purpose in
which the plan of the war with all its threads converges, in
which all distant hopes, all dim glimmerings of the future
meet, fate steps in before us to give an answer to the bold
question. This is the state of mental tension not only of the
commander but of his whole army down to the lowest
waggon-driver, no doubt in decreasing strength but also in
decreasing importance.

According to the nature of the thing, a great battle has never

at any time been an unprepared, unexpected, blind routine
service, but a grand act, which, partly of itself and partly from
the aim of the commander, stands out from amongst the mass
of ordinary efforts, sufficiently to raise the tension of all

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minds to a higher degree. But the higher this tension with
respect to the issue, the more powerful must be the effect of
that issue.

Again, the moral effect of victory in our battles is greater than

it was in the earlier ones of modern military history. If the
former are as we have depicted them, a real struggle of forces
to the utmost, then the sum total of all these forces, of the
physical as well as the moral, must decide more than certain
special dispositions or mere chance.

A single fault committed may be repaired next time; from

good fortune and chance we can hope for more favour on
another occasion; but the sum total of moral and physical
powers cannot be so quickly altered, and, therefore, what the
award of a victory has decided appears of much greater
importance for all futurity. Very probably, of all concerned in
battles, whether in or out of the army, very few have given a
thought to this difference, but the course of the battle itself
impresses on the minds of all present in it such a conviction,
and the relation of this course in public documents, however
much it may be coloured by twisting particular circumstances,
shows also, more or less, to the world at large that the causes
were more of a general than of a particular nature.

He who has not been present at the loss of a great battle will
have difficulty in forming for himself a living or quite true
idea of it, and the abstract notions of this or that small
untoward affair will never come up to the perfect conception
of a lost battle. Let us stop a moment at the picture.

The first thing which overpowers the imagination – and we

may indeed say, also the understanding – is the diminution of

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the masses; then the loss of ground, which takes place always,
more or less, and, therefore, on the side of the assailant also,
if he is not fortunate; then the rupture of the original
formation, the jumbling together of troops, the risks of retreat,
which, with few exceptions may always be seen sometimes in
a less sometimes in a greater degree; next the retreat, the most
part of which commences at night, or, at least, goes on
throughout the night. On this first march we must at once
leave behind a number of men completely worn out and
scattered about, often just the bravest, who have been
foremost in the fight, who held out the longest: the feeling of
being conquered, which only seized the superior officers on
the battlefield, now spreads through all ranks, even down to
the common soldiers, aggravated by the horrible idea of being
obliged to leave in the enemy’s hands so many brave
comrades, who but a moment since were of such value to us
in the battle, and aggravated by a rising distrust of the chief
commander, to whom, more or less, every subordinate
attributes as a fault the fruitless efforts he has made; and this
feeling of being conquered is no ideal picture over which one
might become master; it is an evident truth that the enemy is
superior to us; a truth of which the causes might have been so
latent before that they were not to be discovered, but which,
in the issue, comes out clear and palpable, or which was also,
perhaps, before suspected, but which in the want of any
certainty, we had to oppose by the hope of chance, reliance on
good fortune, Providence or a bold attitude. Now, all this has
proved insufficient, and the bitter truth meets us harsh and
imperious.

All these feelings are widely different from a panic, which in

an army fortified by military virtue never, and in any other,
only exceptionally, follows the loss of a battle. They must

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arise even in the best of armies, and although long habituation
to war and victory together with great confidence in a
commander may modify them a little here and there, they are
never entirely wanting in the first moment. They are not the
pure consequences of lost trophies; these are usually lost at a
later period, and the loss of them does not become generally
known so quickly; they will therefore not fail to appear even
when the scale turn in the slowest and most gradual manner
and they constitute that effect of a victory upon which we can
always count in every case.

We have already said that the number of trophies intensifies

this effect.

It is evident that an army in this condition, looked at as an

instrument, is weakened. How can we expect that when
reduced to such a degree that, as we said before, it finds new
enemies in all the ordinary difficulties of making war, it will
be able to recover by fresh efforts what has been lost! Before
the battle there was a real or assumed equilibrium between the
two sides; this is lost, and, therefore, some external assistance
is requisite to restore it; every new effort without such
external support can only lead to fresh losses.

Thus, therefore, the most moderate victory of the chief army

must tend to cause a constant sinking of the scale on the
opponent’s side, until new external circumstances bring about
a change. If these are not near, if the conqueror is an eager
opponent, who, thirsting for glory, pursues great aims, then a
first-rate commander, and in the beaten army a true military
spirit, hardened by many campaigns are required, in order to
stop the swollen stream of prosperity from bursting all
bounds, and to moderate its course by small but reiterated acts

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of resistance, until the force of victory has spent itself at the
goal of its career.

And now as to the effect of defeat beyond the army, upon the
nation and government! It is the sudden collapse of hopes
stretched to the utmost, the downfall of all self-reliance. In
place of these extinct forces, fear, with its destructive
properties of expansion, rushes into the vacuum left, and
completes the prostration. It is a real shock upon the nerves,
which one of the two athletes receives from the electric spark
of victory. And that effect, however different in its degrees, is
never completely wanting. Instead of everyone hastening with
a spirit of determination to aid in repairing the disaster,
everyone fears that his efforts will only be in vain, and stops,
hesitating with himself, when he should rush forward; or in
despondency he lets his arm drop, leaving everything to fate.

The consequence which this effect of victory brings forth in

the course of the war itself depends in part on the character
and talent of the victorious general, but more on the
circumstances from which the victory proceeds, and to which
it leads. Without boldness and an enterprising spirit on the
part of the leader, the most brilliant victory will lead to no
great success, and its force exhausts itself all the sooner on
circumstances, if these offer a strong and stubborn opposition
to it. How very differently from Daun, Frederick the Great
would have used the victory at Kollin; and what different
consequences France, in place of Prussia, might have given a
battle of Leuthen!

The conditions which allow us to expect great results from a

great victory we shall learn when we come to the subjects
with which they are connected; then it will be possible to

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explain the disproportion which appears at first sight between
the magnitude of a victory and its results, and which is only
too readily attributed to a want of energy on the part of the
conqueror. Here, where we have to do with the great battle in
itself, we shall merely say that the effects now depicted never
fail to attend a victory, that they mount up with the intensive
strength of the victory – mount up more the more the whole
strength of the army has been concentrated in it, the more the
whole military power of the nation is contained in that army,
and the state in that military power.

But then the question may be asked, Can theory accept this
effect of victory as absolutely necessary? – must it not rather
endeavour to find out counteracting means capable of
neutralising these effects? It seems quite natural to answer
this question in the affirmative; but heaven defend us from
taking that wrong course of most theories, out of which is
begotten a mutually devouring Pro et Contra.

Certainly that effect is perfectly necessary, for it has its

foundation in the nature of things, and it exists, even if we
find means to struggle against it; just as the motion of a
cannon ball is always in the direction of the terrestrial,
although when fired from east to west part of the general
velocity is destroyed by this opposite motion.

All war supposes human weakness, and against that it is

directed.

Therefore, if hereafter in another place we examine what is to

be done after the loss of a great battle, if we bring under
review the resources which still remain, even in the most
desperate cases, if we should express a belief in the

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possibility of retrieving all, even in such a case; it must not be
supposed we mean thereby that the effects of such a defeat
can by degrees be completely wiped out, for the forces and
means used to repair the disaster might have been applied to
the realisation of some positive object; and this applies both
to the moral and physical forces.

Another question is, whether, through the loss of a great

battle, forces are not perhaps roused into existence, which
otherwise would never have come to life. This case is
certainly conceivable, and it is what has actually occurred
with many nations. But to produce this intensified reaction is
beyond the province of military art, which can only take
account of it where it might be assumed as a possibility.

If there are cases in which the fruits of a victory appear rather

of a destructive nature in consequence of the reaction of the
forces which it had the effect of rousing into activity – cases
which certainly are very exceptional – then it must the more
surely be granted, that there is a difference in the effects
which one and the same victory may produce according to the
character of the people or state, which has been conquered.

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Chapter xi

The Use of the Battle

Whatever form the conduct of war may take in particular

cases, and whatever we may have to admit in the sequel as
necessary respecting it: we have only to refer to the
conception of war to be convinced of what follows:

1. The destruction of the enemy’s military force is the leading

principle of war, and for the whole chapter of positive action
the direct way to the object.

2. This destruction of the enemy’s force must be principally

effected by means of battle.

3. Only great and general battles can produce great results.

4. The results will be greatest when combats unite themselves

in one great battle.

5. It is only in a great battle that the general-in-chief

commands in person, and it is in the nature of things, that he
should place more confidence in himself than in his
subordinates.

From these truths a double law follows, the parts of which

mutually support each other; namely, that the destruction of
the enemy’s military force is to be sought for principally by
great battles, and their results; and that the chief object of
great battles must be the destruction of the enemy’s military
force.

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No doubt the annihilation-principle is to be found more or
less in other means – granted there are instances in which
through favourable circumstances in a minor combat, the
destruction of the enemy’s forces has been disproportionately
great (Maxen), and on the other hand in a battle, the taking or
holding a single post may be predominant in importance as an
object – but as a general rule it remains a paramount truth,
that battles are only fought with a view to the destruction of
the enemy’s army, and that this destruction can only be
effected by their means.

The battle may therefore be regarded as war concentrated, as

the centre of effort of the whole war or campaign. As the
sun’s rays unite in the focus of the concave mirror in a perfect
image, and in the fullness of their heat; so the forces and
circumstances of war unite in a focus in the great battle for
one concentrated utmost effort.

The very assemblage of forces in one great whole, which

takes place more or less in all wars indicates an intention to
strike a decisive blow with this whole, either voluntarily as
assailant, or constrained by the opposite party as defender.
When this great blow does not follow, then some modifying
and retarding motives have attached themselves to the
original motive of hostility, and have weakened, altered or
completely checked the movement. But also, even in this
condition of mutual inaction which has been the keynote in so
many wars, the idea of a possible battle serves always for
both parties as a point of direction, a distant focus in the
construction of their plans. The more war is war in earnest,
the more it is a venting of animosity and hostility, a mutual
struggle to overpower, so much the more will all activities

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join deadly contest, and also the more prominent in
importance becomes the battle.

In general, when the object aimed at is of a great and positive

nature, one therefore in which the interests of the enemy are
deeply concerned, the battle offers itself as the most natural
means; it is, therefore, also the best as we shall show more
plainly hereafter: and, as a rule, when it is evaded from
aversion to the great decision, punishment follows.

The positive object belongs to the offensive, and therefore the

battle is also more particularly his means. But without
examining the conception of offensive and defensive more
minutely here, we must still observe that, even for the
defender in most cases, there is no other effectual means with
which to meet the exigencies of his situation, to solve the
problem presented to him.

The battle is the bloodiest way of solution. True, it is not

merely reciprocal slaughter, and its effect is more a killing of
the enemy’s courage than of the enemy’s soldiers, as we shall
see more plainly in the next chapter – but still blood is always
its price, and slaughter its character as well as name; from this
the humanity in the general’s mind recoils with horror.

But the soul of the man trembles still more at the thought of
the decision to be given with one single blow. In one point of
space and time all action is here pressed together, and at such
a moment there is stirred up within us a dim feeling as if in
this narrow space all our forces could not develop themselves
and come into activity, as if we had already gained much by
mere time, although this time owes us nothing at all. This is
all mere illusion, but even as illusion it is something, and the

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same weakness which seizes upon the man in every other
momentous decision may well be felt more powerfully by the
general, when he must stake interest of such enormous weight
upon one venture.

Thus, then, statesmen and generals have at all times

endeavoured to avoid the decisive battle, seeking either to
attain their aim without it, or dropping that aim unperceived.
Writers on history and theory have then busied themselves to
discover in some other feature in these campaigns not only an
equivalent for the decision by battle which has been avoided,
but even a higher art. In this way, in the present age, it came
very near to this, that a battle in the economy of war was
looked upon as an evil, rendered necessary through some
error committed, as a morbid paroxysm to which a regular
prudent system of war would never lead: only those generals
were to deserve laurels who knew how to carry on war
without spilling blood, and the theory of war – a real business
for Brahmins – was to be specially directed to teaching this.

Contemporary history has destroyed this illusion, but no one

can guarantee that it will not sooner or later reproduce itself,
and lead those at the head of affairs to perversities which
please man’s weakness, and therefore have the greater affinity
for his nature. Perhaps, by-and-by, Bonaparte’s campaigns
and battles will be looked upon as mere acts of barbarism and
stupidity, and we shall once more turn with satisfaction and
confidence to the dress-sword of obsolete and musty
institutions and forms. If theory gives a caution against this,
then it renders a real service to those who listen to its warning
voice. May we succeed in lending a hand to those who in our
dear native land are called upon to speak with authority on
these matters, that we may be their guide into this field of

363
inquiry, and excite them to make a candid examination of the
subject.

Not only the conception of war but experience also leads us to

look for a great decision only in a great battle. From time
immemorial, only great victories have led to great successes
on the offensive side in the absolute form, on the defensive
side in a manner more or less satisfactory. Even Bonaparte
would not have seen the day of Ulm, unique in its kind, if he
had shrunk from shedding blood; it is rather to be regarded as
only a second crop from the victorious events in his preceding
campaigns. It is not only bold, rash, and presumptuous
generals who have sought to complete their work by the great
venture of a decisive battle, but also fortunate ones as well;
and we may rest satisfied with the answer which they have
thus given to this vast question.

Let us not hear of generals who conquer without bloodshed. If

a bloody slaughter is a horrible sight, then that is a ground for
paying more respect to war, but not for making the sword we
wear blunter and blunter by degrees from feelings of
humanity, until someone steps in with one that is sharp and
lops off the arm from our body.

We look upon a great battle as a principal decision, but

certainly not as the only one necessary for a war or a
campaign. Instances of a great battle deciding a whole
campaign, have been frequent only in modern times, those
which have decided a whole war, belong to the class of rare
exceptions.

A decision which is brought about by a great battle depends

naturally not on the battle itself, that is on the mass of

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combatants engaged in it, and on the intensity of the victory,
but also on a number of other relations between the military
forces opposed to each other, and between the states to which
these forces belong. But at the same time that the principal
mass of the force available is brought to the great duel, a great
decision is also brought on, the extent of which may perhaps
be foreseen in many respects, though not in all, and which
although not the only one, still is the first decision, and as
such, has an influence on those which succeed. Therefore a
deliberately planned great battle, according to its relations, is
more or less, but always in some degree, to be regarded as the
leading means and central point of the whole system. The
more a general takes the field in the true spirit of war as well
as of every contest, with the feeling and the idea, that is the
conviction, that he must and will conquer, the more he will
strive to throw every weight into the scale in the first battle,
hope and strive to win everything by it. Bonaparte hardly ever
entered upon a war without thinking of conquering his enemy
at once in the first battle, and Frederick the Great, although in
a more limited sphere, and with interests of less magnitude at
stake, thought the same when, at the head of a small army, he
sought to disengage his rear from the Russians or the Federal
Imperial army.

The decision which is given by the great battle, depends, we

have said, partly on the battle itself, that is on the number of
troops engaged, and partly on the magnitude of the success.

How the general may increase its importance in respect to the

first point is evident in itself and we shall merely observe that
according to the importance of the great battle, the number of
cases which are decided along with it increases, and that
therefore generals who, confident in themselves have been

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lovers of great decisions, have always managed to make use
of the greater part of their troops in it without neglecting on
that account essential points elsewhere.

As regards the consequences or speaking more correctly the

effectiveness of a victory, that depends chiefly on four points:

1. On the tactical form adopted as the order of battle.

2. On the nature of the country.

3. On the relative proportions of the three arms.

4. On the relative strength of the two armies.

A battle with parallel fronts and without any action against a

flank will seldom yield as great success as one in which the
defeated army has been turned, or compelled to change front
more or less. In a broken or hilly country the successes are
likewise smaller, because the power of the blow is
everywhere less.

If the cavalry of the vanquished is equal or superior to that of

the victor, then the effects of the pursuit are diminished, and
by that great part of the results of victory are lost.

Finally it is easy to understand that if superior numbers are on

the side of the conqueror, and he uses his advantage in that
respect to turn the flank of his adversary, or compel him to
change front, greater results will follow than if the conqueror
had been weaker in numbers than the vanquished. The battle
of Leuthen may certainly be quoted as a practical refutation of

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this principle, but we beg permission for once to say what we
otherwise do not like, no rule without an exception.

In all these ways, therefore, the commander has the means of

giving his battle a decisive character; certainly he thus
exposes himself to an increased amount of danger, but his
whole line of action is subject to that dynamic law of the
moral world.

There is then nothing in war which can be put in comparison

with the great battle in point of importance, and the acme of
strategic ability is displayed in the provision of means for this
great event, in the skilful determination of place and time, and
direction of troops, and in the good use made of success.

But it does not follow from the importance of these things

that they must be of a very complicated and recondite nature;
all is here rather simple, the art of combination by no means
great; but there is great need of quickness in judging of
circumstances, need of energy, steady resolution, a youthful
spirit of enterprise – heroic qualities, to which we shall often
have to refer. There is, therefore, but little wanted here of that
which can be taught by books, and there is much that, if it can
be taught at all, must come to the general through some other
medium than printer’s type.

The impulse towards a great battle, the voluntary, sure

progress to it, must proceed from a feeling of innate power
and a clear sense of the necessity; in other words, it must
proceed from inborn courage and from perceptions sharpened
by contact with the higher interests of life.

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Great examples are the best teachers, but it is certainly a
misfortune if a cloud of theoretical prejudices comes between,
for even the sunbeam is refracted and tinted by the clouds. To
destroy such prejudices, which many a time rise and spread
themselves like a miasma, is an imperative duty of theory, for
the misbegotten offspring of human reason can also be in turn
destroyed by pure reason.

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Chapter xii

Strategic Means of Utilising Victory

The more difficult part, viz. that of perfectly preparing the

victory, is a silent service of which the merit belongs to
strategy and yet for which it is hardly sufficiently
commended. It appears brilliant and full of renown by turning
to good account a victory gained.

What may be the special object of a battle, how it is

connected with the whole system of a war, whither the career
of victory may lead according to the nature of circumstances,
where its culminating-point lies – all these are things which
we shall not enter upon until hereafter. But under any
conceivable circumstances the fact holds good, that without a
pursuit no victory can have a great effect, and that, however
short the career of victory may be, it must always lead beyond
the first steps in pursuit; and in order to avoid the frequent
repetition of this, we shall now dwell for a moment on this
necessary supplement of victory in general.

The pursuit of a beaten army commences at the moment that

army, giving up the combat, leaves its position; all previous
movements in one direction and another belong not to that but
to the progress of the battle itself. Usually victory at the
moment here described, even if it is certain, is still as yet
small and weak in its proportions, and would not rank as an
event of any great positive advantage if not completed by a
pursuit on the first day. Then it is mostly, as we have before
said, that the trophies which give substance to the victory

369
begin to be gathered up. Of this pursuit we shall speak in the
next place.

Usually both sides come into action with their physical

powers considerably deteriorated, for the movements
immediately preceding have generally the character of very
urgent circumstances. The efforts which the forging out of a
great combat costs, complete the exhaustion; from this it
follows that the victorious party is very little less disorganised
and out of his original formation than the vanquished, and
therefore requires time to reform, to collect stragglers, and
issue fresh ammunition to those who are without. All these
things place the conqueror himself in the state of crisis of
which we have already spoken. If now the defeated force is
only a detached portion of the enemy’s army, or if it has
otherwise to expect a considerable reinforcement, then the
conqueror may easily run into the obvious danger of having to
pay dear for his victory, and this consideration, in such a case,
very soon puts an end to pursuit, or at least restricts it
materially. Even when a strong accession of force by the
enemy is not to be feared, the conqueror finds in the above
circumstances a powerful check to the vivacity of his pursuit.
There is no reason to fear that the victory will be snatched
away, but adverse combats are still possible, and may
diminish the advantages which up to the present have been
gained. Moreover, at this moment the whole weight of all that
is sensuous in an army, its wants and weaknesses, are
dependent on the will of the commander. All the thousands
under his command require rest and refreshment, and long to
see a stop put to toil and danger for the present; only a few,
forming an exception, can see and feel beyond the present
moment; it is only amongst this little number that there is
sufficient mental vigour to think, after what is absolutely

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necessary at the moment has been done, upon those results
which at such a moment only appear to the rest as mere
embellishments of victory – as a luxury of triumph. But all
these thousands have a voice in the council of the general, for
through the various steps of the military hierarchy these
interests of the sensuous creature have their sure conductor
into the heart of the commander. He himself, through mental
and bodily fatigue, is more or less weakened in his natural
activity, and thus it happens then that, mostly from these
causes, purely incidental to human nature, less is done than
might have been done, and that generally what is done is to be
ascribed entirely to the thirst for glory, the energy, indeed also
the hardheartedness of the general-in-chief. It is only thus we
can explain the hesitating manner in which many generals
follow up a victory which superior numbers have given them.
The first pursuit of the enemy we limit in general to the extent
of the first day including the night following the victory. At
the end of that period the necessity of rest ourselves
prescribes a halt in any case.

This first pursuit has different natural degrees.

The first is, if cavalry alone are employed; in that case it

amounts usually more to alarming and watching than to
pressing the enemy in reality, because the smallest obstacle of
ground is generally sufficient to check the pursuit. Useful as
cavalry may be against single bodies of broken demoralised
troops, still when opposed to the bulk of the beaten army it
becomes again only the auxiliary arm, because the troops in
retreat can employ fresh reserves to cover the movement, and,
therefore, at the next trifling obstacle of ground, by
combining all arms they can make a stand with success. The

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only exception to this is in the case of an army in actual flight
in a complete state of dissolution.

The second degree is, if the pursuit is made by a strong

advance-guard composed of all arms, the greater part
consisting naturally of cavalry. Such a pursuit generally
drives the enemy as far as the nearest strong position for his
rear-guard, or the next position affording space for his army.
Neither can usually be found at once, and, therefore, the
pursuit can be carried further; generally, however, it does not
extend beyond the distance of one or at most a couple of
leagues, because otherwise the advance-guard would not feel
itself sufficiently supported.

The third and most vigorous degree is when the victorious

army itself continues to advance as far as its physical powers
can endure. In this case the beaten army will generally quit
such ordinary positions as a country usually offers on the
mere show of an attack, or of an intention to turn its flank;
and the rear-guard will be still less likely to engage in an
obstinate resistance.

In all three cases the night, if it sets in before the conclusion

of the whole act, usually puts an end to it, and the few
instances in which this has not taken place, and the pursuit
has been continued throughout the night, must be regarded as
pursuits in an exceptionally vigorous form.

If we reflect that in fighting by night everything must be,

more or less, abandoned to chance, and that at the conclusion
of a battle the regular cohesion and order of things in an army
must inevitably be disturbed, we may easily conceive the
reluctance of both generals to carrying on their business under

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such disadvantageous conditions. If a complete dissolution of
the vanquished army, or a rare superiority of the victorious
army in military virtue does not ensure success, everything
would in a manner be given up to fate, which can never be for
the interest of anyone, even of the most foolhardy general. As
a rule, therefore, night puts an end to pursuit, even when the
battle has only been decided shortly before darkness sets in.
This allows the conquered either time for rest and to rally
immediately, or, if he retreats during the night it gives him a
march in advance. After this break the conquered is decidedly
in a better condition; much of that which had been thrown
into confusion has been brought again into order, ammunition
has been renewed, the whole has been put into a fresh
formation. Whatever further encounter now takes place with
the enemy is a new battle not a continuation of the old, and
although it may be far from promising absolute success, still
it is a fresh combat, and not merely a gathering up of the
debris by the victor.

When, therefore, the conqueror can continue the pursuit itself

throughout the night, if only with a strong advance-guard
composed of all arms of the service, the effect of the victory
is immensely increased; of this the battles of Leuthen and La
Belle Alliance are examples.

The whole action of this pursuit is mainly tactical, and we

only dwell upon it here in order to make plain the difference
which through it may be produced in the effect of a victory.

This first pursuit, as far as the nearest stopping-point, belongs

as a right to every conqueror, and is hardly in any way
connected with his further plans and combinations. These
may considerably diminish the positive results of a victory

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gained with the main body of the army, but they cannot make
this first use of it impossible; at least cases of that kind, if
conceivable at all, must be so uncommon that they should
have no appreciable influence on theory. And here certainly
we must say that the example afforded by modern wars opens
up quite a new field for energy. In preceding wars, resting on
a narrower basis, and altogether more circumscribed in their
scope, there were many unnecessary conventional restrictions
in various ways, but particularly in this point. The conception,
Honour of Victory seemed to generals so much by far the
chief thing that they thought the less of the complete
destruction of the enemy’s military force, as in point of fact
that destruction of force appeared to them only as one of the
many means in war, not by any means as the principal, much
less as the only means; so that they the more readily put the
sword in its sheath the moment the enemy had lowered his.
Nothing seemed more natural to them than to stop the combat
as soon as the decision was obtained, and to regard all further
carnage as unnecessary cruelty. Even if this false philosophy
did not determine their resolutions entirely, still it was a point
of view by which representations of the exhaustion of all
powers, and physical impossibility of continuing the struggle,
obtained readier evidence and greater weight. Certainly the
sparing one’s own instrument of victory is a vital question if
we only possess this one, and foresee that soon the time may
arrive when it will not be sufficient for all that remains to be
done, for every continuation of the offensive must lead
ultimately to complete exhaustion. But this calculation was
still so far false, as the further loss of forces by a continuance
of the pursuit could bear no proportion to that which the
enemy must suffer. That view, therefore, again could only
exist because the military forces were not considered the vital
factor. And so we find that in former wars real heroes only –

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such as Charles XII, Marlborough, Eugene, Frederick the
Great – added a vigorous pursuit to their victories when they
were decisive enough and that other generals usually
contented themselves with the possession of the field of
battle. In modern times the greater energy infused into the
conduct of wars through the greater importance of the
circumstances from which they have proceeded has thrown
down these conventional barriers; the pursuit has become an
all-important business for the conqueror; trophies have on that
account multiplied in extent, and if there are cases also in
modern warfare in which this has not been the case, still they
belong to the list of exceptions, and are to be accounted for by
peculiar circumstances.

At Gorschen and Bautzen nothing but the superiority of the

allied cavalry prevented a complete rout, at Gross Beeren and
Dennewitz the ill-will of Bernadotte, the Crown Prince of
Sweden; at Laon the enfeebled personal condition of Blücher,
who was then seventy years of age and at the moment
confined to a dark room owing to an injury to his eyes.

But Borodino is also an illustration to the point here, and we

cannot resist saying a few more words about it, partly because
we do not consider the circumstances are explained simply by
attaching blame to Bonaparte, partly because it might appear
as if this, and with it a great number of similar cases,
belonged to that class which we have designated as so
extremely rare, cases in which the general relations seize and
fetter the general at the very beginning of the battle. French
authors in particular, and great admirers of Bonaparte
(Vaudancourt, Chambray, Ségur), have blamed him decidedly
because he did not drive the Russian army completely off the
field, and use his last reserves to scatter it, because then what

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was only a lost battle would have been a complete rout. We
should be obliged to diverge too far to describe
circumstantially the mutual situation of the two armies; but
this much is evident, that when Bonaparte passed the Niemen
with his army the same corps which afterwards fought at
Borodino numbered 300,000 men, of whom now only
120,000 remained; he might therefore well be apprehensive
that he would not have enough left to march upon Moscow,
the point on which everything seemed to depend. The victory
which he had just gained gave him nearly a certainty of taking
that capital, for that the Russians would be in a condition to
fight a second battle within eight days seemed in the highest
degree improbable; and in Moscow he hoped to find peace.
No doubt the complete dispersion of the Russian army would
have made this peace much more certain; but still the first
consideration was to get to Moscow, that is, to get there with
a force with which he should appear dictator over the capital,
and through that over the empire and the government. The
force which he brought with him to Moscow was no longer
sufficient for that, as shown in the sequel, but it would have
been still less so if, in scattering the Russian army, he had
scattered his own at the same time. Bonaparte was thoroughly
alive to all this, and in our eyes he stands completely justified.
But on that account this case is still not to be reckoned
amongst those in which, through the general relations, the
general is interdicted from following up his victory, for there
never was in his case any question of mere pursuit. The
victory was decided at four o’clock in the afternoon, but the
Russians still occupied the greater part of the field of battle;
they were not yet disposed to give up the ground, and if the
attack had been renewed, they would still have offered a most
determined resistance, which would have undoubtedly ended
in their complete defeat, but would have cost the conqueror

376
much further bloodshed. We must therefore reckon the Battle
of Borodino as amongst battles, like Bautzen, left unfinished.
At Bautzen the vanquished preferred to quit the field sooner;
at Borodino the conqueror preferred to content himself with a
half victory, not because the decision appeared doubtful, but
because he was not rich enough to pay for the whole.

Returning now to our subject, the deduction from our

reflections in relation to the first stage of pursuit is, that the
energy thrown into it chiefly determines the value of the
victory; that this pursuit is a second act of the victory, in
many cases more important also than the first, and that
strategy, whilst here approaching tactics to receive from it the
harvest of success, exercises the first act of her authority by
demanding this completion of the victory.

But further, the effects of victory are very seldom found to

stop with this first pursuit; now first begins the real career to
which victory lent velocity. This course is conditioned as we
have already said, by other relations of which it is not yet
time to speak. But we must here mention, what there is of a
general character in the pursuit in order to avoid repetition
when the subject occurs again.

In the further stages of pursuit, again, we can distinguish three

degrees: the simple pursuit, a hard pursuit, and a parallel
march to intercept.

The simple following or pursuing causes the enemy to

continue his retreat, until he thinks he can risk another battle.
It will therefore in its effect suffice to exhaust the advantages
gained, and besides that, all that the enemy can not carry with
him, sick, wounded, and disabled from fatigue, quantities of

377
baggage, and carriages of all kinds, will fall into our hands,
but this mere following does not tend to heighten the disorder
in the enemy’s army, an effect which is produced by the two
following causes.

If, for instance, instead of contenting ourselves with taking up

every day the camp the enemy has just vacated, occupying
just as much of the country as he chooses to abandon, we
make our arrangements so as every day to encroach further,
and accordingly with our advance-guard organised for the
purpose, attack his rear-guard every time it attempts to halt,
then such a course will hasten his retreat, and consequently
tend to increase his disorganisation. This it will principally
effect by the character of continuous flight, which his retreat
will thus assume. Nothing has such a depressing influence on
the soldier, as the sound of the enemy’s cannon afresh at the
moment when, after a forced march he seeks some rest; if this
excitement is continued from day to day for some time, it may
lead to a complete rout. There lies in it a constant admission
of being obliged to obey the law of the enemy, and of being
unfit for any resistance, and the consciousness of this cannot
do otherwise than weaken the morale of an army in a high
degree. The effect of pressing the enemy in this way attains a
maximum when it drives the enemy to make night marches. If
the conqueror scares away the discomfited opponent at sunset
from a camp which has just been taken up either for the main
body of the army, or for the rearguard, the conquered must
either make a night march, or alter his position in the night,
retiring further away, which is much the same thing; the
victorious party can on the other hand pass the night in quiet.

The arrangement of marches, and the choice of positions

depend in this case also upon so many other things, especially

378
on the supply of the army, on strong natural obstacles in the
country, on large towns, etc., etc., that it would be ridiculous
pedantry to attempt to show by a geometrical analysis how
the pursuer, being able to impose his laws on the retreating
enemy, can compel him to march at night while he takes his
rest. But nevertheless it is true and practicable that marches in
pursuit may be so planned as to have this tendency, and that
the efficacy of the pursuit is very much enhanced thereby. If
this is seldom attended to in the execution, it is because such
a procedure is more difficult for the pursuing army, than a
regular adherence to ordinary marches in the daytime. To start
in good time in the morning, to encamp at midday, to occupy
the rest of the day in providing for the ordinary wants of the
army, and to use the night for repose, is a much more
convenient method than to regulate one’s movements exactly
according to those of the enemy, therefore to determine
nothing till the last moment, to start on the march, sometimes
in the morning, sometimes in the evening, to be always for
several hours in the presence of the enemy, and exchanging
cannon shots with him, and keeping up skirmishing fire, to
plan manoeuvres to turn him, in short, to make the whole
outlay of tactical means which such a course renders
necessary. All that naturally bears with a heavy weight on the
pursuing army, and in war, where there are so many burdens
to be borne, men are always inclined to strip off those which
do not seem absolutely necessary. These observations are
true, whether applied to a whole army or as in the more usual
case, to a strong advance-guard. For the reasons just
mentioned, this second method of pursuit, this continued
pressing of the enemy pursued is rather a rare occurrence;
even Bonaparte in his Russian campaign, 1812, practised it
but little, for the reasons here apparent, that the difficulties
and hardships of this campaign, already threatened his army

379
with destruction before it could reach its object; on the other
hand, the French in their other campaigns have distinguished
themselves by their energy in this point also.

Lastly, the third and most effectual form of pursuit is, the
parallel march to the immediate object of the retreat.

Every defeated army will naturally have behind it, at a greater

or less distance, some point, the attainment of which is the
first purpose in view, whether it be that failing in this its
further retreat might be compromised, as in the case of a
defile, or that it is important for the point itself to reach it
before the enemy, as in the case of a great city, magazines,
etc., or, lastly, that the army at this point will gain new
powers of defence, such as a strong position, or junction with
other corps.

Now if the conqueror directs his march on this point by a

lateral road, it is evident how that may quicken the retreat of
the beaten army in a destructive manner, convert it into hurry,
perhaps into flight. The conquered has only three ways to
counteract this: the first is to throw himself in front of the
enemy, in order by an unexpected attack to gain that
probability of success which is lost to him in general from his
position; this plainly supposes an enterprising bold general,
and an excellent army, beaten but not utterly defeated;
therefore, it can only be employed by a beaten army in very
few cases.

The second way is hastening the retreat; but this is just what
the conqueror wants, and it easily leads to immoderate efforts
on the part of the troops, by which enormous losses are

380
sustained, in stragglers, broken guns, and carriages of all
kinds.

The third way is to make a detour, and get round the nearest
point of interception, to march with more ease at a greater
distance from the enemy, and thus to render the haste required
less damaging. This last way is the worst of all, it generally
turns out like a new debt contracted by an insolvent debtor,
and leads to greater embarrassment. There are cases in which
this course is advisable; others where there is nothing else
left, also instances in which it has been successful; but upon
the whole it is certainly true that its adoption is usually
influenced less by a clear persuasion of its being the surest
way of attaining the aim than by another inadmissible motive
– this motive is the dread of encountering the enemy. Woe to
the commander who gives in to this! However much the
morale of his army may have deteriorated, and however well
founded may be his apprehensions of being at a disadvantage
in any conflict with the enemy, the evil will only be made
worse by too anxiously avoiding every possible risk of
collision. Bonaparte in 1813 would never have brought over
the Rhine with him the 30,000 or 40,000 men who remained
after the battle of Hanau, if he had avoided that battle and
tried to pass the Rhine at Mannheim or Coblenz. It is just by
means of small combats carefully prepared and executed, and
in which the defeated army being on the defensive, has
always the assistance of the ground – it is just by these that
the moral strength of the army can first be resuscitated.

The beneficial effect of the smallest successes is incredible;

but with most generals the adoption of this plan implies great
self-command. The other way, that of evading all encounter,
appears at first so much easier, that there is a natural

381
preference for its adoption. It is therefore usually just this
system of evasion which best promotes the view of the
pursuer, and often ends with the complete downfall of the
pursued; we must, however, recollect here that we are
speaking of a whole army, not of a single division, which,
having been cut off, is seeking to join the main army by
making a detour; in such a case circumstances are different,
and success is not uncommon. But there is one condition
requisite to the success of this race of two corps for an object,
which is that a division of the pursuing army should follow by
the same road which the pursued has taken, in order to pick
up stragglers, and keep up the impression which the presence
of the enemy never fails to make. Blücher neglected this in
his, in other respects unexceptionable, pursuit after La Belle
Alliance.

Such marches tell upon the pursuer as well as the pursued,

and they are not advisable if the enemy’s army rallies itself
upon another considerable one; if it has a distinguished
general at its head, and if its destruction is not already well
prepared. But when this means can be adopted, it acts also
like a great mechanical power. The losses of the beaten army
from sickness and fatigue are on such a disproportionate
scale, the spirit of the army is so weakened and lowered by
the constant solicitude about impending ruin, that at last
anything like a well organised stand is out of the question;
every day thousands of prisoners fall into the enemy’s hands
without striking a blow. In such a season of complete good
fortune, the conqueror need not hesitate about dividing his
forces in order to draw into the vortex of destruction
everything within reach of his army, to cut off detachments,
to take fortresses unprepared for defence, to occupy large
towns, etc., etc. He may do anything until a new state of

382
things arises, and the more he ventures in this way the longer
will it be before that change will take place.

There is no want of examples of brilliant results from grand

decisive victories, and of great and vigorous pursuits in the
wars of Bonaparte. We need only quote Jena 1806,
Ratisbonne 1809, Leipsic 1813, and Belle-Alliance 1815.

383
Chapter xiii

Retreat After a Lost Battle

In a lost battle the power of an army is broken, the moral to a

greater degree than the physical. A second battle unless fresh
favourable circumstances come into play, would lead to a
complete defeat, perhaps, to destruction. This is a military
axiom. According to the usual course the retreat is continued
up to that point where the equilibrium of forces is restored,
either by reinforcements, or by the protection of strong
fortresses, or by great defensive positions afforded by the
country, or by a separation of the enemy’s force. The
magnitude of the losses sustained, the extent of the defeat, but
still more the character of the enemy, will bring nearer or put
off the instant of this equilibrium. How many instances may
be found of a beaten army rallied again at a short distance,
without its circumstances having altered in any way since the
battle. The cause of this may be traced to the moral weakness
of the adversary, or to the preponderance gained in the battle
not having been sufficient to make a lasting impression.

To profit by this weakness or mistake of the enemy, not to

yield one inch breadth more than the pressure of
circumstances demands, but above all things, in order to keep
up the moral forces to as advantageous a point as possible, a
slow retreat, offering incessant resistance, and bold
courageous counterstrokes, whenever the enemy seeks to gain
any excessive advantages, are absolutely necessary. Retreats
of great generals and of armies inured to war have always
resembled the retreat of a wounded lion, and such is,
undoubtedly, also the best theory.

384
It is true that at the moment of quitting a dangerous position
we have often seen trifling formalities observed which caused
a waste of time, and were, therefore, attended with danger,
whilst in such cases everything depends on getting out of the
place speedily. Practised generals reckon this maxim a very
important one. But such cases must not be confounded with a
general retreat after a lost battle. Whoever then thinks by a
few rapid marches to gain a start, and more easily to recover a
firm standing, commits a great error. The first movements
should be as small as possible, and it is a maxim in general
not to suffer ourselves to be dictated to by the enemy. This
maxim cannot be followed without bloody fighting with the
enemy at our heels, but the gain is worth the sacrifice; without
it we get into an accelerated pace which soon turns into a
headlong rush, and costs merely in stragglers more men than
rear-guard combats, and besides that extinguishes the last
remnants of the spirit of resistance.

A strong rear-guard composed of picked troops, commanded

by the bravest general, and supported by the whole army at
critical moments, a careful utilisation of ground, strong
ambuscades wherever the boldness of the enemy’s
advance-guard, and the ground, afford opportunity; in short,
the preparation and the system of regular small battles – these
are the means of following this principle.

The difficulties of a retreat are naturally greater or less

according as the battle has been fought under more or less
favourable circumstances, and according as it has been more
or less obstinately contested. The battle of Jena and La
Belle-Alliance show how impossible anything like a regular
retreat may become, if the last man is used up against a
powerful enemy.

385
Now and again it has been suggested to divide for the purpose
of retreating, therefore to retreat in separate divisions or even
eccentrically. Such a separation as is made merely for
convenience, and along with which concentrated action
continues possible and is kept in view, is not what we now
refer to; any other kind is extremely dangerous, contrary to
the nature of the thing, and therefore a great error. Every lost
battle is a principle of weakness and disorganisation; and the
first and immediate desideratum is to concentrate, and in
concentration to recover order, courage, and confidence. The
idea of harassing the enemy by separate corps on both flanks
at the moment when he is following up his victory, is a
perfect anomaly; a fainthearted pedant might be overawed by
his enemy in that manner, and for such a case it may answer;
but where we are not sure of this failing in our opponent it is
better let alone. If the strategic relations after a battle require
that we should cover ourselves right and left by detachments,
so much must be done, as from circumstances is unavoidable,
but this fractioning must always be regarded as an evil, and
we are seldom in a state to commence it the day after the
battle itself.

If Frederick the Great after the battle of Kollin, and the

raising of the siege of Prague, retreated in three columns that
was done not out of choice, but because the position of his
forces, and the necessity of covering Saxony, left him no
alternative. Bonaparte after the battle of Brienne, sent
Marmont back to the Aube, whilst he himself passed the
Seine, and turned towards Troyes; but that this did not end in
disaster, was solely owing to the circumstances that the allies,
instead of pursuing divided their forces in like manner,
turning with the one part (Blücher) towards the Marne, while

386
with the other (Schwartzenberg), from fear of being too weak,
they advanced with exaggerated caution.

387
Book V

Military Forces

388
***

389
Chapter iii

Relation of Power

In the eighth chapter of the third book we have spoken of the

value of superior numbers in battles, from which follows as a
consequence the superiority of numbers in general in strategy.
So far the importance of the relations of power is established:
we shall now add a few more detailed considerations on the
subject.

An unbiased examination of modern military history leads to

the conviction that the superiority in numbers becomes every
day more decisive; the principle of assembling the greatest
possible numbers for a decisive battle may therefore be
regarded as more important than ever.

[...]

Armies are in our days so much on a par in regard to arms,

equipment, and drill, that there is no very notable difference
between the best and the worst in these things. A difference
may still be observed, resulting from the superior instruction
of the general staff, but in general it only amounts to this, that
one is the inventor and introducer of improved appliances,
which the other immediately imitates! Even the subordinate
generals, leaders of corps and divisions, in all that comes
within the scope of their sphere, have in general everywhere
the same ideas and methods, so that, except the talent of the
commander-in-chief – a thing entirely dependent on chance,
and not bearing a constant relation to the standard of
education amongst the people and the army – there is nothing

390
now but habituation to war which can give one army a
decided superiority over another. The nearer approach to a
state of equality in all these things, the more decisive
becomes the relation in point of numbers.

[...]

391
Chapter iv

Relation of the Three Arms

We shall only speak of the three principal arms: Infantry,

Cavalry, and Artillery.

We must be excused for making the following analysis which

belongs more to tactics, but is necessary to give distinctness
to our ideas.

The combat is of two kinds, which are essentially different:

the destructive principle of fire, and the hand to hand or
personal combat. This latter, again, is either attack or defence.
(As we here speak of elements, attack and defence are to be
understood in a perfectly absolute sense.) Artillery, obviously,
acts only with the destructive principle of fire. Cavalry only
with personal combat. Infantry with both.

[...]

The principal results we obtain from the whole of these

considerations, are:

1. That infantry is the chief arm, to which the other two are
subordinate.

2. That by the exercise of great skill and energy in command,

the want of the two subordinate arms may in some measure
be compensated for, provided that we are much stronger in
infantry; and the better the infantry the easier this may be
done.

392
3. That it is more difficult to dispense with artillery than with
cavalry, because it embodies the chief principle of
destruction, and its mode of fighting is more amalgamated
with that of infantry.

4. That artillery being the strongest arm, as regards

destructive action, and cavalry the weakest in that respect, the
question must in general arise, how much artillery can we
have without inconvenience, and what is the least proportion
of cavalry we require?

[Note:. Clausewitz bases his conclusions on the following

data. The infantry musket could be fired about three times a
minute and its effect was decisive up to 200 yards; its extreme
range was about 1200 yards, so that in attacking, troops might
begin to suffer loss when within that distance of the enemy.
Artillery fire with round shot was still effective at 2000 yards
but only became accurate at 1000 yards. With case shot, guns
could sweep the ground from 400 yards – and case contained
about as many bullets as modern shrapnel of equal calibre –
i.e. a six-pounder case weighed about 12 lbs, a
twelve-pounder case 24 lbs. Guns could be and were often
double-shotted, and since at such close quarters, relaying after
each shot was unnecessary, they could be fired up to ten
rounds a minute. Howitzers formed part of every field battery
and fired shell; they were principally used for setting fire to
buildings and firing over the heads of advancing troops.
Frederick the Great had already proposed to keep up an army
Reserve of forty heavy howitzers for preparing his decisive
attacks.

Owing to the deterioration of horse flesh, the consequences of

the long wars, the efficiency of cavalry was very low. Except

393
by the British, the charge at a gallop was considered too
dangerous to be practised. The Napoleonic cavalry masses
once started could no longer be manoeuvred or rallied, and
generally exhausted their energy in an advance over 1500
yards of ground.]

394
***

395
Chapter xiv

Subsistence

[...]

Almost all old wars consist of single unconnected enterprises,

which are separated from each other by intervals during
which the war in reality either completely ceased, and only
still existed in a political sense, or when the armies at least
had removed so far from each other that each, without any
care about the army opposite, only occupied itself with its
own wants.

Modern wars, that is, the wars which have taken place since
the Peace of Westphalia, have, through the efforts of
respective governments, taken a more systematic form; the
military object, in general, predominated everywhere, and
demands also that arrangements for subsistence shall be on an
adequate scale.

[...]

The modern method of subsisting troops, that is, seizing every

thing which is to be found in the country without regard to
meum et tuum, may be carried out in four different ways: that
is, subsisting on the inhabitant, contributions which the troops
themselves look after, general contributions, and magazines.
All four are generally applied together, one generally
prevailing more than the others: still it sometimes happens
that only one is applied entirely by itself.

396
1. Living on the inhabitant, or on the community, which is the
same thing

If we bear in mind that in a community consisting even as it

does in great towns, of consumers only, there must always be
provisions enough to last for several days, we may easily see
that the most densely populated place can furnish food and
quarters for a day for about as many troops as there are
inhabitants, and for a less number of troops for several days
without the necessity of any particular previous preparation.

[...]

The conclusion to be drawn from this hasty glance is,

therefore, that in a moderately populated country, that is, a
country of from 2000 to 3000 souls per twenty-five square
miles, an army of 150,000 combatants may be subsisted by
the inhabitants and community for one or two days within
such a narrow space as will not interfere with its
concentration for battle, that is, therefore, that such an army
can be subsisted on a continuous march without magazines or
other preparation.

[...]

2. Subsistence through exactions enforced by the troops

themselves

If a single battalion occupies a camp, this camp may be

placed in the vicinity of some villages, and these may receive
notice to furnish subsistence; then the method of subsistence
would not differ essentially from the preceding mode. But, as
is most usual, if the mass of troops to be encamped at some

397
one point is much larger, there is no alternative but to make a
collection in common within the circle of districts marked out
for the purpose, collecting sufficient for the supply of one of
the parts of the army, a brigade or division, and afterwards to
make a distribution from the common stock thus collected.

The first glance shows that by such a mode of proceeding the

subsistence of a large army would be a matter of
impossibility. The collection made from the stores in any
given district in the country will be much less than if the
troops had taken up their quarters in the same district, for
when thirty or forty men take possession of a farmer’s house
they can if necessary collect the last mouthful, but one officer
sent with a few men to collect provisions has neither time nor
means to hunt out all the provisions that may be stored in a
house, often also he has not the means of transport; he will
therefore only be able to collect a small proportion of what is
actually forthcoming. Besides, in camps the troops are
crowded together in such a manner at one point, that the range
of country from which provisions can be collected in a hurry
is not of sufficient extent to furnish the whole of what is
required. What could be done in the way of supplying 30,000
men, within a circle of five miles in diameter, or from an area
of fifteen or twenty square miles? Moreover it would seldom
be possible to collect even what there is, for the most of the
nearest adjacent villages would be occupied by small bodies
of troops who would not allow anything to be removed.
Lastly, by such a measure there would be the greatest waste,
because some men would get more than they required, whist a
great deal would be lost, and of no benefit to anyone.

The result is, therefore, that the subsistence of troops by

forced contributions in this manner can only be adopted with

398
success when the bodies of troops are not too large, not
exceeding a division of 8000 or 10,000 men, and even then it
is only to be resorted to as an unavoidable evil.

[...]

3. By regular requisitions

This is unquestionably the simplest and most efficacious

means of subsisting troops, and it has been the basis of all
modern wars.

It differs from the preceding way chiefly by its having the

co-operation of the local authorities. The supply in this case
must not be carried off forcibly just from the spot where it is
found, but be regularly delivered according to an equitable
division of the burden. This division can only be made by the
recognised official authorities of the country.

In this all depends on time. The more time there is, the more
general can the division be made, the less will it press on
individuals, and the more regular will be the result. Even
purchases may be made with ready money to assist, in which
way it will approach the mode which follows next in order
(magazines). In all assemblages of troops in their own country
there is no difficulty in subsisting by regular requisitions;
neither, as a rule, is there any in retrograde movements. On
the other hand, in all movements into a country of which we
are not in possession, there is very little time for such
arrangements, seldom more than the one day which the
advance guard is in the habit of preceding the army. With the
advance guard the requisitions are sent to the local officials,
specifying how many rations they are to have ready at such

399
and such places. As these can only be furnished from the
immediate neighbourhood, that is, within a circuit of ten
miles round each point, the collections so made in haste will
never be nearly sufficient for an army of considerable
strength, and consequently, if the troops do not carry with
them enough for several days, they will run short. It is
therefore the duty of the commissariat to economise what is
received, and only to issue to those troops who have nothing.
With each succeeding day, however, the embarrassment
diminishes; that is to say, if the distances from which
provisions can be procured increase in proportion to the
number of days, then the superficial area over which the
contributions can be levied increases as the squares of the
distances gained. If on the first day only twenty square miles
have been drawn upon, on the next day we shall have eighty,
on the third, one hundred and eighty.

[...]

4. Subsistence from magazines

If we are to make a generic distinction between this method

of subsisting troops and the preceding, it must be by an
organisation such as existed for about thirty years at the close
of the seventeenth and during the eighteenth century. Can this
organisation ever reappear?

Certainly we cannot conceive how it can be dispensed with if

great armies are to be bound down for seven, ten, or twelve
years long to one spot, as they were formerly in the
Netherlands, on the Rhine, in Upper Italy, Silesia, and
Saxony; for what country can continue for such a length of
time to endure the burden of two great armies, making it the

400
entire source of their supplies, without being utterly ruined in
the end, and therefore gradually becoming unable to meet the
demands?

But here naturally arises the question: shall the war prescribe
the system of subsistence, or shall the latter dictate the nature
of the war? To this we answer: the system of subsistence will
control the war, as far as the other conditions on which it
depends permit; but when the latter are encroached upon, the
war will react on the subsistence system, and in such case
determine the same.

A war carried on by means of the system of requisitions and

local supplies furnished on the spot has such an advantage
over one carried on in dependence on issues from magazines,
that the latter does not look at all like the same instrument. No
state will therefore venture to encounter the former with the
latter; and if any war minister should be so narrow-minded
and blind to circumstances as to ignore the real relation which
the two systems bear to each other, by sending an army into
the field to live upon the old system, the force of
circumstances would carry the commander of that army along
with it in its course, and the requisition system would burst
forth of itself. If we consider besides, that the great expense
attending such an organisation must necessarily reduce the
extent of the armament in other respects, including of course
the actual number of combatant soldiers, as no state has a
superabundance of wealth, then there seems no probability of
any such organisation being again resorted to, unless it should
be adopted by the belligerents by mutual agreement, an idea
which is a mere play of the imagination.

401
Wars therefore may be expected henceforward always to
commence with the requisition system; how much one or
other government will do to supplement the same by an
artificial organisation to spare their own country, etc., etc.,
remains to be seen; that it will not be overmuch we may be
certain, for at such moments the tendency is to look to the
most urgent wants, and an artificial system of subsisting
troops does not come under that category.

But now, if a war is not so decisive in its results, if its

operations are not so comprehensive as is consistent with its
real nature, then the requisition system will begin to exhaust
the country in which it is carried on to that degree that either
peace must be made, or means must be found to lighten the
burden on the country, and to become independent of it for
the supplies of the army.

[...]

Whatever method of providing subsistence may be chosen, it

is but natural that it should be more easily carried out in rich
and well-peopled countries, than in the midst of a poor and
scanty population.

[...]

402
Chapter xv

Base of Operations

If an army sets out on any expedition, whether it be to attack

the enemy and his theatre of war, or to take post on its own
frontier, it continues in a state of necessary dependence on the
sources from which it draws its subsistence and
reinforcements, and must maintain its communication with
them as they are the conditions of its existence and
preservation. This dependence increases in intensity and
extent in proportion to the size of the army. But now it is
neither always possible nor requisite that the army should
continue in direct communication with the whole of its own
country; it is sufficient if it does so with that portion
immediately in its rear, and which is consequently covered by
its position. In this portion of the country then, as far as
necessary, special depots of provisions are formed, and
arrangements are made for regularly forwarding
reinforcements and supplies. This strip of territory is therefore
the foundation of the army and of all its undertakings, and the
two must be regarded as forming in connection only one
whole. If the supplies for their greater security are lodged in
fortified places, the idea of a base becomes more distinct; but
the idea does not originate in any arrangement of that kind,
and in a number of cases no such arrangement is made.

But a portion of the enemy’s territory may also become a base

for our army, or, at least, form part of it; for when an army
penetrates into an enemy’s land, a number of its wants are
supplied from that part of the country which is taken
possession of; but it is then a necessary condition that we are

403
completely masters of this portion of territory, that is, certain
of our orders being obeyed within its limits. This certainty,
however, seldom extends beyond the reach of our ability to
keep the inhabitants in awe by small garrisons, and
detachments moving about from place to place, and that is not
in general very far. The consequence is, that in the enemy’s
country, the part of territory from which we can draw supplies
is seldom of sufficient extent to furnish all the supplies we
require, and we must therefore still depend on our own land
for much, and this brings us back again to the importance of
that part of our territory immediately in rear of our army as an
indispensable portion of our base.

The wants of an army may be divided into two classes, first

those which every cultivated country can furnish; and next
those which can only be obtained from those localities where
they are produced. The first are chiefly provisions, the second
the means of keeping an army complete in every way. The
first can therefore be obtained in the enemy’s country; the
second, as a rule, can only be furnished by our own country,
for example men, arms, and almost all munitions of war.
Although there are exceptions to this classification in certain
cases, still they are few and trifling, and the distinction we
have drawn is of standing importance, and proves again that
the communication with our own country is indispensable.

Depots of provisions and forage are generally formed in open

towns, both in the enemy’s and in our own country, because
there are not as many fortresses as would be required for
these bulky stores continually being consumed, and wanted
sometimes here, sometimes there, and also because their loss
is much easier to replace; on the other hand, stores to keep the
army complete, such as arms, munition of war, and articles of

404
equipment are never lodged in open places in the vicinity of
the theatre of war if it can be avoided, but are rather brought
from a distance, and in the enemy’s country never stored
anywhere but in fortresses. From this point, again, it may be
inferred that the base is of more importance in relation to
supplies intended to refit an army than in relation to
provisions for food.

[...]

405
Chapter xvi

Lines of Communication

The roads which lead from the position of an army to those

points in its rear where its depots of supply and means of
recruiting and refitting its forces are principally united, and
which it also in all ordinary cases chooses for its retreat, have
a double signification; in the first place, they are its lines of
communication for the constant nourishment of the combatant
force, and next they are roads of retreat.

We have said in the preceding chapter, that, although

according to the present system of subsistence, an army is
chiefly fed from the district in which it is operating, it must
still be looked upon as forming a whole with its base. The
lines of communication belong to this whole; they form the
connection between the army and its base, and are to be
considered as so many great vital arteries. Supplies of every
kind, convoys of munitions, detachments moving backwards
and forwards, posts, orderlies, hospitals, depots, reserves of
stores, agents of administration, all these objects are
constantly making use of these roads, and the total value of
these services is of the utmost importance to the army.

These great channels of life must therefore neither be

permanently severed, nor must they be of too great length, or
beset with difficulties, because there is always a loss of
strength on a long road, which tends to weaken the condition
of an army.

406
By their second purpose, that is as lines of retreat, they
constitute in a real sense the strategic rear of the army.

For both purposes the value of these roads depends on their

length, their number, their situation, that is their general
direction, and their direction specially as regards the army,
their nature as roads, difficulties of ground, the political
relations and feeling of local population, and lastly, on the
protection they derive from fortresses or natural obstacles in
the country.

But all the roads which lead from the point occupied by an
army to its sources of existence and power, are not on that
account necessarily lines of communication for that army.
They may no doubt be used for that purpose, and may be
considered as supplementary of the system of communication,
but that system is confined to the lines regularly prepared for
the purpose. Only those roads on which magazines, hospitals,
stations, posts for despatches and letters are organised under
commandants with police and garrisons, can be looked upon
as real lines of communication. But here a very important
difference between our own and the enemy’s army makes its
appearance, one which is often overlooked. An army, even in
its own country, has its prepared lines of communication, but
it is not completely limited to them, and can in case of need
change its line, taking some other which presents itself, for it
is everywhere at home, has officials in authority, and the
friendly feeling of the people. Therefore, although other roads
may not be as good as those at first selected there is nothing
to prevent their being used, and the use of them is not to be
regarded as impossible in case the army is turned and obliged
to change its front. An army in an enemy’s country on the
contrary can as a rule only look upon those roads as lines of

407
communication upon which it has advanced; and hence arises
through small and almost invisible causes a great difference
in operating.

[...]

408
***

409
Book VI

Defence

410
Chapter i

Offence and Defence

1. Conception of defence

What is defence in conception? The warding off a blow. What

is then its characteristic sign? The state of expectancy (or of
waiting for this blow). This is the sign by which we always
recognise an act as of a defensive character, and by this sign
alone can the defensive be distinguished from the offensive in
war. But inasmuch as an absolute defence completely
contradicts the idea of war, because there would then be war
carried on by one side only, it follows that the defence in war
can only be relative and the above distinguishing signs must
therefore only be applied to the essential idea or general
conception: it does not apply to all the separate acts which
compose the war.

[...]

But as we must return the enemy’s blows if we are really to

carry on war on our side, therefore this offensive act in
defensive war takes place more or less under the general title
defensive – that is to say, the offensive of which we make use
falls under the conception of position or theatre of war. We
can, therefore, in a defensive campaign fight offensively, in a
defensive battle we may use some divisions for offensive
purposes, and lastly, while remaining in position awaiting the
enemy’s onslaught, we still make use of the offensive by
sending at the same time bullets into the enemy’s ranks. The

411
defensive form in war is therefore no mere shield but a shield
formed of blows delivered with skill.

2. Advantages of the defensive

What is the object of defence? To preserve. To preserve is

easier than to acquire; from which follows at once that the
means on both sides being supposed equal, the defensive is
easier than the offensive. But in what consists the greater
facility of preserving or keeping possession? In this, that all
time which is not turned to any account falls into the scale in
favour of the defence. He reaps where he has not sowed.
Every suspension of offensive action, either from erroneous
views, from fear or from indolence, is in favour of the side
acting defensively. This advantage . . . is one which derives
itself from the conception and object of the defensive, lies in
the nature of all defence, and in ordinary life, particularly in
legal business which bears so much resemblance to war, it is
expressed by the Latin proverb, Beati sunt possidentes.
Another advantage arising from the nature of war and
belonging to it exclusively, is the aid afforded by locality or
ground; this is one of which the defensive form has a
preferential use.

Having established these general ideas we now turn more

directly to the subject . . . in order to express ourselves
distinctly, we must say, that the defensive form of War is in
itself stronger than the offensive.

[...]

If the defensive is the stronger form of conducting war, but

has a negative object, it follows of itself that we must only

412
make use of it so long as our weakness compels us to do so,
and that we must give up that form as soon as we feel strong
enough to aim at the positive object. Now as the state of our
circumstances is usually improved in the event of our gaining
a victory through the assistance of the defensive, it is
therefore, also, the natural course in war to begin with the
defensive, and to end with the offensive. It is therefore just as
much in contradiction with the conception of war to suppose
the defensive the ultimate object of the war as it was a
contradiction to understand passivity to belong to all the parts
of the defensive, as well as to the defensive as a whole. In
other words: a war in which victories are merely used to ward
off blows, and where there is no attempt to return the blow,
would be just as absurd as a battle in which the most absolute
defence (passivity) should everywhere prevail in all measures.

[...]

413
Chapter ii

The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to each other in

Tactics

First of all we must inquire into the circumstances which give

the victory in a battle.

Of superiority of numbers, and bravery, discipline or other

qualities of an army, we say nothing here, because, as a rule,
they depend on things which lie out of the province of the art
of war in the sense in which we are now considering it;
besides which they exercise the same effect in the offensive
as the defensive; and, moreover also, the superiority in
numbers in general cannot come under consideration here, as
the number of troops is likewise a given quantity or condition,
and does not depend on the will or pleasure of the general.
Further, these things have no particular connection with
attack and defence. But, irrespective of these things, there are
other three which appear to us of decisive importance, these
are: surprise, advantage of ground, and the attack from
several quarters. The surprise produces an effect by opposing
to the enemy a great many more troops than he expected at
some particular point. The superiority in numbers in this case
is very different to a general superiority of numbers; it is the
most powerful agent in the art of war.

The way in which the advantage of ground contributes to the

victory is intelligible enough of itself, and we have only one
observation to make, which is, that we do not confine our
remarks to obstacles which obstruct the advance of an enemy,
such as scarped grounds, high hills, marshy streams, hedges,

414
enclosures, etc.; we also allude to the advantage which
ground affords as cover, under which troops are concealed
from view. Indeed we may say that even from ground which
is apparently featureless a person acquainted with the locality
may derive assistance. The attack from several quarters
includes in itself all tactical turning movements great and
small, and its effects are derived partly from the double
execution obtained in this way from firearms, and partly from
the enemy’s dread of his retreat being cut off.

Now how do the offensive and defensive stand respectively in

relation to these things?

Having in view the three principles of victory just described,

the answer to this question is, that only a small portion of the
first and last of these principles is in favour of the offensive,
whilst the greater part of them, and the whole of the second
principle, are at the command of the party acting defensively.

The offensive side can only have the advantage of one

complete surprise of the whole mass with the whole, whilst
the defensive is in a condition to surprise incessantly,
throughout the whole course of the combat, by the force and
form which he gives to his partial attacks.

The offensive has greater facilities than the defensive for

surrounding and cutting off the whole, as the latter is in a
manner in a fixed position while the former is in a state of
movement having reference to that position. But the superior
advantage for an enveloping movement, which the offensive
possesses, as now stated, is again limited to a movement
against the whole mass; for during the course of the combat,
and with separate divisions of the force, it is easier for the

415
defensive than for the offensive to make attacks from several
quarters, because, as we have already said, the former is in a
better situation to surprise by the force and form of his
attacks.

That the defensive in an especial manner enjoys the assistance

which ground affords is plain in itself; as to what concerns the
advantage which the defensive has in surprising by the force
and form of his attacks, that results from the offensive being
obliged to approach by roads and paths where he may be
easily observed, whilst the defensive conceals his position,
and, until almost the decisive moment, remains invisible to
his opponent.

[...]

If the offensive should discover some new and powerful

element which it can bring to its assistance – an event not
very probable, seeing the point of simplicity and natural order
to which all is now brought – then the defence must again
alter its method. But the defensive is always certain of the
assistance of ground, which ensures to it in general its natural
superiority, as the special properties of country and ground
exercise a greater influence than ever on actual warfare.

416
Chapter iii

The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to each other in

Strategy

Let us ask again, first of all, what are the circumstances which
ensure a successful result in strategy?

In strategy there is no victory, as we have before said. On the

one hand, the strategic success is the successful preparation of
the tactical victory; the greater this strategic success, the more
probable becomes the victory in the battle. On the other hand,
strategic success lies in the making use of the victory gained.
The more events the strategic combinations can in the sequel
include in the consequences of a battle gained, the more
strategy can lay hands on amongst the wreck of all that has
been shaken to the foundation by the battle, the more it
sweeps up in great masses what of necessity has been gained
with great labour by many single hands in the battle, the
grander will be its success. Those things which chiefly lead to
this success, or at least facilitate it, consequently the leading
principles of efficient action in strategy, are as follow:

1. The advantage of ground.

2. The surprise, let it be either in the form of an actual attack

by surprise or by the unexpected display of large forces at
certain points.

3. The attack from several quarters (all three, as in tactics).

417
4. The assistance of the theatre of war by fortresses, and
everything belonging to them.

5. The support of the people.

6. The utilisation of great moral forces.

Now, what are the relations of offensive and defensive with

respect to these things?

The defender has the advantage of ground; the assailant that

of the attack by surprise in strategy, as in tactics. But
respecting the surprise, we must observe that it is infinitely
more efficacious and important in the former than in the
latter. In tactics, a surprise seldom rises to the level of a great
victory, while in strategy it often finishes the war at one
stroke. But at the same time we must observe that the
advantageous use of this means supposes some great and
uncommon, as well as decisive error committed by the
adversary, therefore it does not alter the balance much in
favour of the offensive.

[...]

Now it confessedly lies in the nature of things, that on

account of the greater spaces in strategy, the enveloping
attack, or the attack from several sides, as a rule is only
possible for the side which has the initiative, that is the
offensive, and that the defensive is not in a condition, as he is
in tactics, in the course of the action, to turn the tables on the
enemy by surrounding him, because he has it not in his power
either to draw up his forces with the necessary depth
relatively, or to conceal them sufficiently: but then, of what

418
use is the facility of enveloping to the offensive, if its
advantages are not forthcoming?

[...]

The fourth principle, the assistance of the theatre of war, is

naturally an advantage on the side of the defensive. If the
attacking army opens the campaign, it breaks away from its
own theatre, and is thus weakened, that is, it leaves fortresses
and depots of all kinds behind it. The greater the sphere of
operations which must be traversed, the more it will be
weakened (by marches and garrisons); the army on the
defensive continues to keep up its connection with
everything, that is, it enjoys the support of its fortresses, is not
weakened in any way, and is near to its sources of supply.

The support of the population as a fifth principle is not

realised in every defence, for a defensive campaign may be
carried on in the enemy’s country, but still this principle is
only derived from the idea of the defensive, and applies to it
in the majority of cases. Besides by this is meant chiefly,
although not exclusively, the effect of calling out the last
reserves, and even of a national armament, the result of which
is that all friction is diminished, and that all resources are
sooner forthcoming and flow in more abundantly.

[...]

If we add to the fourth and fifth principles, the consideration

that these forces of the defensive belong to the original
defensive, that is the defensive carried on in our own soil, and
that they are much weaker if the defence takes place in an
enemy’s country and is mixed up with an offensive

419
undertaking, then from that there is a new disadvantage for
the offensive, much the same as above, in respect to the third
principle; for the offensive is just as little composed entirely
of active elements, as the defensive of mere warding off
blows; indeed every attack which does not lead directly to
peace must inevitably end in the defensive.

[...]

We think we have now sufficiently established our

proposition, that the defensive is a stronger form of war than
the offensive; but there still remains to be mentioned one
small factor hitherto unnoticed. It is the high spirit, the feeling
of superiority in an army which springs from a consciousness
of belonging to the attacking party. The thing is in itself a
fact, but the feeling soon merges into the more general and
more powerful one which is imparted by victory or defeat, by
the talent or incapacity of the general.

420
***

421
Chapter v

Character of Strategic Defensive

We have already explained what the defensive is generally,

namely, nothing more than a stronger form of carrying on
war, by means of which we endeavour to wrest a victory, in
order, after having gained a superiority, to pass over to the
offensive, that is to the positive object of war.

Even if the intention of a war is only the maintenance of the

existing situation of things, the status quo, still a mere
parrying of a blow is something quite contradictory to the
conception of the term war, because the conduct of war is
unquestionably no mere state of endurance. If the defender
has obtained an important advantage, then the defensive form
has done its part, and under the protection of this success he
must give back the blow, otherwise he exposes himself to
certain destruction; common sense points out that iron should
be struck while it is hot, that we should use the advantage
gained to guard against a second attack. How, when, and
where this reaction shall commence is subject certainly to a
number of other conditions, which we can only explain
hereafter. For the present we keep to this, that we must
always consider this transition to an offensive return as a
natural tendency of the defensive, therefore as an essential
element of the same, and always conclude that there is
something wrong in the management of a war when a victory
gained through the defensive form is not turned to good
account in any manner, but allowed to wither away.

422
A swift and vigorous assumption of the offensive – the
flashing sword of vengeance – is the most brilliant point in
the defensive; he who does not at once think of it at the right
moment, or rather he who does not from the first include this
transition in his idea of the defensive will never understand
the superiority of the defensive as a form of war.

[...]

423
Chapter vi

Extent of the Means of Defence

We have shown . . . how the defence has a natural advantage

in the employment of those things, which – irrespective of the
absolute strength and qualities of the combatant force –
influence the tactical as well as the strategic result, namely,
the advantage of ground, sudden attack, attack from several
directions (converging form of attack), the assistance of the
theatre of war, support of the people, and the utilising great
moral forces. We think it useful now to cast again a glance
over the extent of the means which are at command of the
defensive in particular.

[...]

1. Landwehr [militia]

This force has been used in modern times to combat the

enemy on foreign soil; . . . there always lies in the idea of a
Landwehr the notion of a very extensive more or less
voluntary co-operation of the whole mass of the people in
support of the war, with all their physical powers, as well as
with their feelings, and a ready sacrifice of all they possess.
The more its organisation deviates from this, so much the
more the force thus created will become a standing army
under another name, and the more it will have the advantages
of such a force; but it will also lose in proportion the
advantages which belong properly to a patriotic levy, viz.
those of being a force, the limits of which are undefined, and
capable of being easily increased by appealing to the feelings

424
and patriotism of the people. In these things lies the essence
of a militia; in its organisation, latitude must be allowed for
this co-operation of the whole people; if we seek to obtain
something extraordinary from a militia, we are only following
a shadow.

[...]

2. Fortresses

The assistance afforded by fortresses to the offensive does not

extend beyond what is given by those close upon the
frontiers, and is only feeble in influence; the assistance which
the defensive can derive from this reaches further into the
heart of the country, and therefore more of them can be
brought into use.

[...]

3. The people

Although the influence of a single inhabitant of the theatre of

war on the course of the war in most cases is not more
perceptible than the co-operation of a drop of water in a
whole river, still even in cases where there is no such thing as
a general rising of the people, the total influence of the
inhabitants of a country in war is anything but imperceptible.
Everything goes on easier in our own country, provided it is
not opposed by the general feeling of the population. All
contributions, great and small, are only yielded to the enemy
under the compulsion of direct force; that operation must be
undertaken by the troops, and cost the employment of many
men as well as great exertions. The defensive receives all he

425
wants, if not always voluntarily, as in cases of enthusiastic
devotion, still through the long-used channels of submission
to the state on the part of the citizens, which has become
second nature, and which besides that, is enforced by the
terrors of the law, with which the army has nothing to do. But
the spontaneous co-operation of the people, proceeding from
true attachment, is in all cases most important.

[...]

5. Allies

Finally, we may further reckon allies as the last support of the

defensive. Naturally we do not mean ordinary allies, which
the assailant may likewise have; we speak of those essentially
interested in maintaining the integrity of the country. If for
instance we look at the various states composing Europe at
the present time, we find (without speaking of a
systematically regulated balance of power and interests, as
that does not exist, and therefore is often with justice disputed
) that the great and small states and interests of nations are
interwoven with each other in a most diversified and
changeable manner, each of these points of intersection
forming a binding knot.

[...]

In this manner the whole relations of all states to each other

serve rather to preserve the stability of the whole than to
produce changes, that is to say, this tendency to stability
exists in general.

426
This we conceive to be the true notion of a balance of power,
and in this sense it will always of itself come into existence,
wherever there are extensive connections between civilised
states.

[...]

427
Chapter vii

Mutual Action and Reaction of Attack and Defence

We shall now consider attack and defence separately, as far as

they can be separated from each other. We commence with
the defensive for the following reasons: it is certainly very
natural and necessary to base the rules for the defence upon
those of the offensive, and vice versa; but one of the two must
still have a third point of departure, if the whole chain of
ideas is to have a beginning, that is, to be possible. The first
question concerns this point.

If we reflect upon the commencement of war philosophically,

the conception of war does not originate properly with the
offensive, as that form has for its absolute object, not so much
fighting as the taking possession of something. The idea of
war arises first by the defensive, for that form has the battle
for its direct object, as warding off and fighting plainly are
one and the same. The warding off is directed entirely against
the attack; therefore supposes it, necessarily; but the attack is
not directed against the warding off; it is directed upon
something else – the taking possession; consequently does not
presuppose the warding off. It lies, therefore, in the nature of
things, that the party who first brings the element of war into
action, the party from whose point of view two opposite
parties are first conceived, also establishes the first laws of
war, and that party is the defender. We are not speaking of
any individual case; we are only dealing with a general, an
abstract case, which theory imagines in order to determine the
course it is to take.

428
[...]

429
Chapter viii

Methods of Resistance

The conception of the defence is warding off; in this warding

off lies the state of expectance, and this state of expectance
we have taken as the chief characteristic of the defence, and at
the same time as its principal advantage.

But as the defensive in war cannot be a state of endurance,

therefore this state of expectation is only a relative, not an
absolute state; the subjects with which this waiting for is
connected are, as regards space, either the country, or the
theatre of war, or the position, and, as regards time, the war,
the campaign, or the battle.

[...]

A defence of the country, therefore, only waits for attack on

the country; a defence of a theatre of war an attack on the
theatre of war; and the defence of a position the attack of that
position. Every positive, and consequently more or less
offensive, kind of action which the defensive uses after the
above period of waiting for, does not negative the idea of the
continuance of the defensive; for the state of expectation,
which is the chief sign of the same, and its chief advantage,
has been realised.

[...]

The defensive consists, therefore, of two heterogeneous parts,

the state of expectancy and that of action. By having referred

430
the first to a definite subject, and therefore given it
precedence of action, we have made it possible to connect the
two into one whole. But an act of the defensive, especially a
considerable one, such as a campaign or a whole war, does
not, as regards time, consist of two great halves, the first the
state of mere expectation, the second entirely of a state of
action; it is a state of alternation between the two, in which
the state of expectation can be traced through the whole act of
the defensive like a continuous thread.

[...]

For the present we shall employ ourselves in explaining how

the principle of the state of expectation runs through the act of
defence, and what are the successive stages in the defence
itself which have their origin in this state.

[...]

We shall take the defence of a theatre of War as being the

subject, in which we can best show the relations of the
defensive.

[...]

If we suppose an army with its theatre of war intended for

defence, the defence may be made as follows:

1. By attacking the enemy the moment he enters the theatre of

war (Mollwitz, Hohenfriedberg).

2. By taking up a position close on the frontier, and waiting

till the enemy appears with the intention of attacking it, in

431
order then to attack him (Czaslau, Soor, Rosbach). Plainly
this second mode of proceeding, partakes more of endurance,
we ‘wait for’ longer; and although the time gained by it as
compared with that gained in the first, may be very little, or
none at all if the enemy’s attack actually takes place, still, the
battle which in the first case was certain, is in the second
much less certain. Perhaps the enemy may not be able to
make up his mind to attack; the advantage of the ‘waiting
for’, is then at once greater.

3. By the army in such position not only awaiting the decision

of the enemy to fight a battle, that is his appearance in front of
the position, but also waiting to be actually assaulted (in order
to keep to the history of the same general – Bunzelwitz). In
such case, we fight a regular defensive battle, which however,
as we have before said, may include offensive movements
with one or more parts of the army. Here also, as before, the
gain of time does not come into consideration, but the
determination of the enemy is put to a new proof; many a one
has advanced to the attack, and at the last moment, or after
one attempt given it up, finding the position of the enemy too
strong.

4. By the army transferring its defence to the heart of the

country. The object of retreating into the interior is to cause a
diminution in the enemy’s strength, and to wait until its
effects are such that his forward march is of itself
discontinued, or at least until the resistance which we can
offer him at the end of his career is such as he can no longer
overcome.

[...]

432
A retreat into the interior of the country may procure by
degrees for the defender that necessary equilibrium or that
superiority which was wanting to him on the frontier; for
every forward movement in the strategic attack lessens its
force, partly absolutely, partly through the separation of
forces which becomes necessary.

[...]

Now in this fourth case the gain of time is to be looked upon

as the principal point of all.

[...]

It is plain that, in all the four methods indicated, the defensive

has the benefit of the ground or country, and likewise that he
can by that means bring into co-operation his fortresses and
the people; moreover these efficient principles increase at
each fresh stage of the defence, for they are a chief means of
bringing about the weakening of the enemy’s force in the
fourth stage. Now as the advantages of the ‘state of
expectation’ increase in the same direction, therefore it
follows of itself that these stages are to be regarded as a real
intensifying of the defence, and that this form of war always
gains in strength the more it differs from the offensive. We
are not afraid on this account of anyone accusing us of
holding the opinion that the most passive defence would
therefore be the best. The action of resistance is not weakened
at each new stage, it is only delayed, postponed. But the
assertion that a stouter resistance can be offered in a strong
judiciously entrenched position, and also that when the enemy
has exhausted his strength in fruitless efforts against such a
position a more effective counterstroke may be levelled at

433
him, is surely not unreasonable. Without the advantage of
position Daun would not have gained the victory at Kollin,
and as Frederick the Great only brought off 18,000 men from
the field of battle, if Daun had pursued him with more energy
the victory might have been one of the most brilliant in
military history.

We therefore maintain, that at each new stage of the defensive

the preponderance, or more correctly speaking, the
counterpoise increases in favour of the defensive, and
consequently there is also a gain in power for the
counterstroke.

Now are these advantages of the increasing force of the

defensive to be had for nothing? By no means, for the
sacrifice with which they are purchased increases in the same
proportion.

If we wait for the enemy within our own theatre of war,

however near the border of our territory the decision takes
place, still this theatre of war is entered by the enemy, which
must entail a sacrifice on our part; whereas, had we made the
attack, this disadvantage would have fallen on the enemy. If
we do not proceed at once to meet the enemy and attack him,
our loss will be the greater, and the extent of the country
which the enemy will overrun, as well as the time which he
requires to reach our position, will continually increase. If we
wish to give battle on the defensive, and we therefore leave its
determination and the choice of time for it to the enemy, then
perhaps he may remain for some time in occupation of the
territory which he has taken, and the time which through his
deferred decision we are allowed to gain will in that manner
be paid for by us. The sacrifices which must be made become

434
still more burdensome if a retreat into the heart of the country
takes place.

But all these sacrifices on the part of the defensive, at most

only occasion him in general a loss of power which merely
diminishes his military force indirectly, therefore, at a later
period, and not directly, and often so indirectly that its effect
is hardly felt at all. The defensive, therefore, strengthens
himself for the present moment at the expense of the future,
that is to say, he borrows, as everyone must who is too poor
for the circumstances in which he is placed.

Now, if we would examine the result of these different forms

of resistance we must look to the object of the aggression.
This is, to obtain possession of our theatre of war, or, at least,
of an important part of it, for under the conception of the
whole, at least the greater part must be understood, as the
possession of a strip of territory a few miles in extent is, as a
rule, of no real consequence in strategy. As long, therefore, as
the aggressor is not in possession of this, that is, as long as
from fear of our force he has either not yet advanced to the
attack of the theatre of war, or has not sought to find us in our
position, or has declined the combat we offer, the object of
the defence is fulfilled, and the effects of the measures taken
for the defensive have therefore been successful. At the same
time this result is only a negative one, which certainly cannot
directly give the force for a real counterstroke. But it may
give it indirectly, that is to say, it is on the way to do so; for
the time which elapses the aggression loses, and every loss of
time is a disadvantage, and must weaken in some way the
party who suffers the loss.

435
Therefore in the first three stages of the defensive, that is, if it
takes place on the frontier, the non-decision is already a result
in favour of the defensive.

But it is not so with the fourth.

If the enemy lays siege to our fortresses we must relieve them

in time; to do this we must therefore bring about the decision
by positive action.

This is likewise the case if the enemy follows us into the

interior of the country without besieging any of our places.
Certainly in this case we have more time; we can wait until
the enemy’s weakness is extreme, but still it is always an
indispensable condition that we are at last to act. The enemy
is now, perhaps, in possession of the whole territory which
was the object of his aggression, but it is only lent to him; the
tension continues, and the decision is yet pending. As long as
the defensive is gaining strength and the aggressor daily
becoming weaker, the postponement of the decision is in the
interest of the former: but as soon as the culminating point of
this progressive advantage has arrived, as it must do, were it
only by the ultimate influence of the general loss to which the
offensive has exposed himself, it is time for the defender to
proceed to action, and bring on a solution, and the advantage
of the ‘waiting for’ may be considered as completely
exhausted.

[...]

Therefore, even at the end of his aggressive course, when the

enemy is suffering the heavy penalty of his attack, when
detachments, hunger, and sickness have weakened and worn

436
him out, it is still always the dread of our sword which causes
him to turn about, and allow everything to go on again as
usual. But nevertheless, there is a great difference between
such a solution and one which takes place on the frontier.

In the latter case our arms only were opposed to his to keep
him in check, or carry destruction into his ranks; but at the
end of the aggressive career the enemy’s forces, by their own
exertions, are half destroyed, by which our arms acquire a
totally different value, and therefore, although they are the
final they are not the only means which have produced the
solution. This destruction of the enemy’s forces in the
advance prepares the solution, and may do so to this extent,
that the mere possibility of a reaction on our part may cause
the retreat, consequently a reversal of the situation of affairs.
In this case, therefore, we can practically ascribe the solution
to nothing else than the efforts made in the advance. Now, in
point of fact we shall find no case in which the sword of the
defensive has not co-operated; but, for the practical view, it is
important to distinguishing which of the two principles is the
predominating one.

In this sense we think we may say that there is a double

solution in the defensive, consequently a double kind for
reaction, according as the aggressor is ruined by the sword of
the defensive, or by his own efforts.

That the first kind of solution predominates in the first three

steps of the defence, the second in the fourth, is evident in
itself; and the latter will, in most cases, only come to pass by
the retreat being carried deep into the heart of the country,
and nothing but the prospect of that result can be a sufficient

437
motive for such a retreat, considering the great sacrifices
which it must cost.

We have, therefore, ascertained that there are two different

principles of defence; there are cases in military history where
they each appear as separate and distinct as it is possible for
an elementary conception to appear in practical life. When
Frederick the Great attacked the Austrians at Hohenfriedberg,
just as they were descending from the Silesian mountains,
their force could not have been weakened in any sensible
manner by detachments or fatigue; when, on the other hand,
Wellington, in his entrenched camp at Torres Vedras, waited
till hunger, and the severity of the weather, had reduced
Massena’s army to such extremities that they commenced to
retreat of themselves, the sword of the defensive party had no
share in the weakening of the enemy’s forces. In other cases,
in which they are combined with each other in a variety of
ways, still, one of them distinctly predominates. This was the
case in the year 1812.

[...]

438
***

439
Chapter x

Fortresses

[...]

The efficacy of a fortress is plainly composed of two different

elements, the passive and the active. By the first it shelters the
place, and all that it contains; by the other it possesses a
certain influence over the adjacent country, even beyond the
range of its guns.

This active element consists in the attacks which the garrison

may undertake upon every enemy who approaches within a
certain distance. The larger the garrison, so much the stronger
numerically will be the detachments that may be employed on
such expeditions, and the stronger such detachments the
wider as a rule will be the range of their operations.

[...]

At the same time it is evident that amongst the different

purposes which a fortress may have to answer generally, or in
this or that moment, the passive element will be most required
at one time, the active at another. The role which a fortress is
to fulfil may be perfectly simple, and the action of the place
will in such case be to a certain extent direct; it may be partly
complicated, and the action then becomes more or less
indirect. We shall examine these subjects separately,
commencing with the first; but at the outset we must state that
a fortress may be intended to answer several of these

440
purposes, perhaps all of them, either at once, or at least at
different stages of the war.

We say, therefore, that fortresses are great and most important

supports of the defensive.

1. As secure depots of stores of all kinds. The assailant during

his aggression subsists his army from day to day; the
defensive usually must have made preparations long
beforehand, he need not therefore draw provisions exclusively
from the district he occupies, and which he no doubt desires
to spare. Storehouses are therefore for him a great necessity.
The provisions of all kinds which the aggressor possesses are
in his rear as he advances, and are therefore exempt from the
dangers of the theatre of war, while those of the defensive are
exposed to them. If these provisions of all kinds are not in
fortified places, then a most injurious effect on the operations
in the field is the consequence . . .

. . . An army on the defensive without fortresses has a

hundred vulnerable spots; it is a body without armour.

2. As a protection to great and wealthy towns. This purpose is

closely allied to the first, for great and wealthy towns,
especially commercial ones, are the natural storehouses of an
army.

[...]

3. As real barriers, they close the roads, and in most cases the
rivers, on which they are situated.

441
It is not as easy as is generally supposed to find a practicable
lateral road which passes round a fortress, for this turning
must be made, not only out of reach of the guns of this place,
but also by a detour greater or less, to avoid sorties of the
garrison.

[...]

4. As tactical points d’appui. As the diameter of the zone

covered by the fire of even a very inferior class of
fortifications is usually some miles, fortresses may be
considered always as the best points d’appui for the flanks of
a position.

[...]

5. As a station (or stage). If fortresses are on the line of

communication of the defensive, as is generally the case, they
serve as halting places for all that passes up and down these
lines . . . If a valuable convoy . . . can reach a fortress by
hastening the march or quickly turning, it is saved, and may
wait there till the danger is past. Further, all troops marching
to or from the army, after halting here for a few days, are
better able to hasten the remainder of the march, and a halting
day is just the time of greatest danger. In this way a fortress
situated half way on a line of communication of one hundred
and fifty miles shortens the line in a manner one half.

6. As places of refuge for weak or defeated corps. Under the

guns of a moderate sized fortress every corps is safe from the
enemy’s blows, even if no entrenched camp is specially
prepared for them.

442
[...]

7. As a real shield against the enemy’s aggression. Fortresses

which the defender leaves in his front break the stream of the
enemy’s attack like ice breakers on the piers of a bridge. The
enemy must at least invest them, and requires for that, if the
garrisons are brave and enterprising, perhaps double their
strength. But, besides, these garrisons may and do mostly
consist in part of troops, who, although competent to duty in a
garrison, are not fit for the field – half trained militia,
invalids, convalescents, armed citizens, landsturm, etc. The
enemy, therefore, in such case is perhaps weakened four
times more than we are.

[...]

8. As a protection to extended cantonments. That a

moderate-sized fortress closes the approach to cantonments
lying behind it for a width of fifteen to twenty miles is a
simple result of its existence.

[...]

9. As covering a province not occupied. If during war a

province is either not occupied at all, or only occupied by an
insufficient force, and likewise exposed more or less to
incursions from flying columns, then a fortress, if not too
unimportant in size, may be looked upon as a covering, or, if
we prefer, as a security for this province. As a security it may
at all events be regarded, for an enemy cannot become master
of the province until he has taken it, and that gives us time to
hasten to its defence. But the actual covering can certainly
only be supposed very indirect, or as not properly belonging

443
to it. That is, the fortress by its active opposition can only in
some measure check the incursions of hostile bands.

[...]

10 As the focus of a general arming of the nation. Provisions,

arms, and munitions can never be supplied in a regular
manner in a people’s war; on the other hand, it is just in the
very nature of such a war to do the best we can; in that way a
thousand small sources furnishing means of resistance are
opened which otherwise might have remained unused; and it
is easy to see that a strong commodious fortress, as a great
magazine of these things, can well give to the whole defence
more force and intensity, more cohesion, and greater results.

Besides, a fortress is a place of refuge for wounded, the seat

of the civil functionaries, the treasury, the point of assembly
for the greater enterprises, etc., etc.; lastly, a nucleus of
resistance which during the siege places the enemy’s force in
a condition which facilitates and favours the attacks of
national levies acting in conjunction.

11. For the defence of rivers and mountains. Nowhere can a

fortress answer so many purposes, undertake to play so many
parts, as when it is situated on a great river. It secures the
passage at any time at that spot, and hinders that of the enemy
for several miles each way, it commands the use of the river
for commercial purposes, receives all ships within its walls,
blocks bridges and roads, and helps the indirect defence of the
river, that is, the defence by a position on the enemy’s side. It
is evident that, by its influence in so many ways, it very
greatly facilitates the defence of the river, and may be
regarded as an essential part of that defence.

444
Fortresses in mountains are important in a similar manner.
They there form the knots of whole systems of roads, which
have their commencement and termination at that spot; they
thus command the whole country which is traversed by these
roads, and they may be regarded as the true buttresses of the
whole defensive system.

445
Chapter xi

Fortresses (continuation)

[...]

The chief questions which remain relate to:

1. The choice of the principal roads, if the two countries are

connected by more roads than we wish to fortify.

2. Whether the fortresses are to be placed on the frontier only,

or spread over the country.

[...]

Amongst a number of great roads leading from the enemy’s

country into ours, we should first of all fortify that which
leads most directly to the heart of our dominions, or that
which, traversing fertile provinces, or running parallel to
navigable rivers, facilitates the enemy’s undertaking, and then
we may rest secure. The assailant then encounters these
works, or should he resolve to pass them by, he will naturally
offer a favourable opportunity for operations against his
flank.

[...]

We turn now to the second question – Whether the fortresses

should be placed on the frontier, or distributed over the
country? In the first place, we must observe, that, as regards
small states, this question is superfluous, for what are called

446
strategic frontiers coincide, in their case, nearly with the
whole country. The larger the state is supposed to be in the
consideration of this question, the plainer appears the
necessity for its being answered.

The most natural answer is – that fortresses belong to the

frontiers, for they are to defend the state, and the state is
defended as long as the frontiers are defended. This argument
may be valid in the abstract, but the following considerations
will show that it is subject to very many modifications.

Every defence which is calculated chiefly on foreign

assistance lays great value on gaining time; it is not a
vigorous counterstroke, but a blow proceeding, in which the
chief gain consists more in delay than in any weakening of
the enemy which is effected. But now it lies in the nature of
the thing that, supposing all other circumstances alike,
fortresses which are spread over the whole country, and
include between them a very considerable area of territory,
will take longer to capture than those squeezed together in a
close line on the frontier. Further, in all cases in which the
object is to overcome the enemy through the length of his
communications, and the difficulty of his existence, therefore
in countries which can chiefly reckon on this kind of reaction,
it would be a complete contradiction to have the defensive
preparations of this kind only on the frontier. Lastly, let us
also remember that, if circumstances will in any way allow of
it, the fortification of the capital is a main point; that
according to our principles the chief towns and places of
commerce in the provinces demand it otherwise; that rivers
passing through the country, mountains, and other irregular
features of ground, afford advantages for new lines of
defence; that many towns, through their strong natural

447
situation, invite fortification; moreover, that certain
accessories of war, such as manufactories of arms, etc., are
better placed in the interior of the country than on the frontier,
and their value well entitles them to the protection of works
of fortification; then we see that there is always more or less
occasion for the construction of fortresses in the interior of a
country; on this account we are of opinion, that although
states which possess a great number of fortresses are right in
placing the greater number on the frontier, still it would be a
great mistake if the interior of the country was left entirely
destitute of them.

[...]

448
***

449
Chapter xxv

Retreat into the Interior of the Country

We have considered the voluntary retreat into the heart of the

country as a particular indirect form of defence through which
it is expected the enemy will be destroyed, not so much by the
sword as by exhaustion from his own efforts. In this case,
therefore, a great battle is either not supposed, or it is
assumed to take place when the enemy’s forces are
considerably reduced.

Every assailant in advancing diminishes his military strength

by the advance.

[...]

This loss in the advance is increased if the enemy has not

been beaten, but withdraws of his own accord with his forces
intact, and offering a steady continuous resistance, sells every
step of ground at a bloody price, so that the advance is a
continuous combat for ground and not a mere pursuit.

On the other hand, the losses which a party on the defensive

suffers on a retreat, are much greater if his retreat has been
preceded by a defeat in battle than if his retreat is voluntary.

[...]

A regularly measured daily resistance, that is, one which each

time only lasts as long as the balance of success in the combat
can be kept wavering, and in which we secure ourselves from

450
defeat by giving up the ground which has been contested at
the right moment, will cost the assailant at least as many men
as the defender in these combats, for the loss which the latter
by retiring now and again must unavoidably suffer in
prisoners, will be balanced by the losses of the other under
fire, as the assailant must always fight against the advantages
of the ground.

[...]

The result will be that the two armies will wear each other
away in nearly equal proportions in these perpetual collisions.

It is quite different in the pursuit of a beaten army. Here the

troops lost in battle, the general disorganisation, the broken
courage, the anxiety about the retreat, make such a resistance
on the part of the retreating army very difficult, in many cases
impossible; and the pursuer who, in the former case, advances
extremely cautiously, even hesitatingly, like a blind man,
always groping about, presses forward in the latter case with
the firm tread of the conqueror, with the overweening spirit
which good fortune imparts, with the confidence of a
demi-god, and the more daringly he urges the pursuit so much
the more he hastens on things in the direction which they
have already taken, because here is the true field for the moral
forces which intensify and multiply themselves without being
restricted to the rigid numbers and measures of the physical
world.

[...]

The army in retreat has the means of collecting provisions

everywhere, and he marches towards them, whilst the pursuer

451
must have everything brought after him which, as long as he
is in motion, even with the shortest lines of communication, is
difficult, and on that account begets scarcity from the very
first.

All that the country yields will be taken for the benefit of the
retreating army first, and will be mostly consumed. Nothing
remains but wasted villages and towns, fields from which the
crops have been gathered, or which are trampled down, empty
wells, and muddy brooks.

The pursuing army, therefore, from the very first day has
frequently to contend with the most pressing wants. On taking
the enemy’s supplies he cannot reckon; it is only through
accident, or some unpardonable blunder on the part of the
enemy, that here and there some little falls into his hands.

Thus there can be no doubt that in countries of vast

dimensions, and when there is no extraordinary disproportion
between the belligerent powers, a relation may be produced in
this way between the military forces, which holds out to the
defensive an immeasurably greater chance of a final result in
his favour than he would have had if there had been a great
battle on the frontier. Not only does the probability of gaining
a victory become greater though this alteration in the
proportions of the contending armies, but the prospects of
great results from the victory are increased as well, through
the change of position. What a difference between a battle
lost close to the frontier of our country and one in the middle
of the enemy’s country! Indeed, the situation of the assailant
is often such at the end of his first start, that even a battle
gained may force him to retreat, because he has neither
enough impulsive power left to complete and make use of a

452
victory, nor is he in a condition to replace the forces he has
lost.

There is, therefore, an immense difference between a decisive

blow at the commencement and at the end of the attack.

To the great advantage of this mode of defence are opposed

two drawbacks. The first is the loss which the country suffers
through the presence of the enemy in his advance, the other is
the moral impression.

To protect the country from loss can certainly never be looked

upon as the object of the whole defence. That object is an
advantageous peace. To obtain that as surely as possible is the
endeavour, and for it no momentary sacrifice must be
considered too great. At the same time, the above loss,
although it may not be decisive, must still be laid in the
balance, for it always affects our interests.

This loss does not affect our army directly; it only acts upon it
in a more or less roundabout way, whilst the retreat itself
directly reinforces our army. It is, therefore, difficult to draw
a comparison between the advantage and disadvantage in this
case; they are things of a different kind, the action of which is
not directed towards any common point. We must, therefore,
content ourselves with saying that the loss is greater when we
have to sacrifice fruitful provinces well populated, and large
commercial towns; but it arrives at a maximum when at the
same time we lose war-means either ready for use or in
course of preparation.

The second counterpoise is the moral impression. There are

cases in which the commander must be above regarding such

453
a thing, in which he must quietly follow out his plans, and run
the risk of the objections which short-sighted despondency
may offer; but nevertheless this impression is no phantom
which should be despised. It is not like a force which acts
upon one point: but like a force which, with the speed of
lightning, penetrates every fibre, and paralyses all the powers
which should be in full activity, both in a nation and in its
army. There are indeed cases in which the cause of the retreat
into the interior of the country is quickly understood by both
nation and army, and trust, as well as hope, are elevated by
the step; but such cases are rare. More usually, the people and
the army cannot distinguish whether it is a voluntary
movement or a precipitate retreat, and still less whether the
plan is one wisely adopted, with a view to ensure ulterior
advantages, or the result of fear of the enemy’s sword. The
people have a mingled feeling of sympathy and dissatisfaction
at seeing the fate of the provinces sacrificed; the army easily
loses confidence in its leaders, or even in itself, and the
constant combats of the rear-guard during the retreat, tend
always to give new strength to its fears. These are
consequences of the retreat about which we must never
deceive ourselves. And it certainly is – considered in itself –
more natural, simpler, nobler, and more in accordance with
the moral existence of a nation, to enter the lists at once that
the enemy may not cross the frontiers of its people without
being opposed by its genius, and being called to a bloody
account.

These are the advantages and disadvantages of this kind of

defence; now a few words on its conditions and the
circumstances which are in its favour.

454
A country of great extent, or at all events, a long line of
retreat, is the first and fundamental condition: for an advance
of a few marches will naturally not weaken the enemy
seriously. Bonaparte’s centre, in the year 1812 at Witepsk,
was 250,000 strong, at Smolensk 182,000, at Borodino it had
diminished to 130,000, that is to say, had fallen to about an
equality with the Russian centre. Borodino is four hundred
and fifty miles from the frontier; but it was not until they
came near Moscow that the Russians reached that decided
superiority in numbers, which of itself reversed the situation
of the combatants so assuredly, that the French victory at
Malo Jaroslewetz could not essentially alter it again.

No other European state has the dimensions of Russia, and in

very few can a line of retreat five hundred miles long be
imagined. But neither will a power such as that of the French
in 1812, easily appear under different circumstances, still less
such a superiority in numbers as existed at the
commencement of the campaign, when the French army had
more than double the numbers of its adversary, besides its
undoubted moral superiority. Therefore, what was here only
effected at the end of five hundred miles, may perhaps, in
other cases, be attained at the end of two hundred and fifty or
three hundred miles.

The circumstances which favour this mode of defence are:

1. A country only little cultivated,

2. A loyal and warlike people,

3. An inclement season.

455
All these things increase the difficulty of maintaining an
army, render great convoys necessary, many detachments,
harassing duties, cause the spread of sickness, and make
operations against the flanks easier for the defender.

Lastly, we have yet to speak of the absolute mass alone of the

armed force, as influencing the result.

It lies in the nature of the thing itself that, irrespective of the

mutual relation of the forces opposed to each other, a small
force is sooner exhausted than a larger, and, therefore, that its
career cannot be so long, nor its theatre of war so wide. There
is, therefore, to a certain extent, a constant relation between
the absolute size of an army and the space which that army
can occupy. It is out of the question to try to express this
relation by any figures, and besides, it will always be
modified by other circumstances; it is sufficient for our
purpose to say that these things necessarily have this relation
from their very nature. We may be able to march upon
Moscow with 500,000 but not with 50,000, even if the
relation of the invader’s army to that of the defender in point
of numbers were much more favourable in the latter case.

Now if we assume that there is this relation of absolute power

to space in two different cases, then it is certain that the effect
of our retreat into the interior in weakening the enemy will
increase with the masses.

1. Subsistence and lodging of the troops become more

difficult.

[...]

456
2. The advance is in the same manner more tedious in
proportion as the masses increase, consequently, the time is
longer before the career of aggression is run out; and the sum
total of the daily losses is greater.

Three thousand men driving two thousand before them in an

ordinary country, will not allow them to march at the rate of
five, ten, or at most fifteen miles a day, and from time to time
to make a few days’ halt. To come up with them, to attack
them, and force them to make a further retreat is the work of a
few hours; but if we multiply these masses by 100, the case is
altered. Operations for which a few hours sufficed in the first
case, require now a whole day, perhaps two. The contending
forces cannot remain together near one point; thereby,
therefore, the diversity of movements and combinations
increases, and, consequently, also the time required. But this
places the assailant at a disadvantage, because his difficulty
with subsistence being greater, he is obliged to extend his
force more than the pursued, and, therefore, is always in
danger of being overpowered by the latter at some particular
point, as the Russians tried to do at Witepsk.

3. The greater the masses are, the more severe are the
exertions demanded from each individual for the daily duties
required strategically and tactically. A hundred thousand men
who have to march to and from the point of assembly every
day, halted at one time, and then set in movement again, now
called to arms, then cooking or receiving their rations – a
hundred thousand who must not go into their bivouac until the
necessary reports are delivered in from all quarters – these
men, as a rule, require for all these exertions connected with
the actual march, twice as much time as 50,000 would

457
require, but there are only twenty-four hours in the day for
both.

[...]

Now, the retreating army, it is true, partakes of these fatigues

as well as the advancing, but they are much greater for the
latter:

1. Because the mass of his troops is greater on account of the

superiority which we supposed,

2. Because the defender, by being always the party to yield

ground, purchases by this sacrifice the right of the initiative,
and, therefore, the right always to give the law to the other.
He forms his plan beforehand, which, in most cases, he can
carry out unaltered, but the aggressor, on the other hand, can
only make his plans conformably to those of his adversary,
which he must in the first instance find out.

We must, however, remind our readers that we are speaking

of the pursuit of an enemy who has not suffered a defeat, who
has not even lost a battle.

[...]

3. Because the retreating force on the one hand does all he can
to make his own retreat easy, repairs roads, and bridges,
chooses the most convenient places for encampment, etc.,
and, on the other hand again, does all he can to throw
impediments in the way of the pursuer, as he destroys bridges,
by the mere act of marching makes bad roads worse, deprives

458
the enemy of good places for encampment by occupying them
himself, etc.

Lastly, we must add still, as a specially favourable

circumstance, the war made by the people.

[...]

459
Chapter xxvi

Arming the Nation

A people’s war in civilised Europe is a phenomenon of the

nineteenth century. It has its advocates and its opponents: the
latter either considering it in a political sense as a
revolutionary means, a state of anarchy declared lawful,
which is as dangerous as a foreign enemy to social order at
home; or on military grounds, conceiving that the result is not
commensurate with the expenditure of the nation’s strength.
The first point does not concern us here, for we look upon a
people’s war merely as a means of fighting, therefore, in its
connection with the enemy; but with regard to the latter point,
we must observe that a people’s war in general is to be
regarded as a consequence of the outburst which the military
element in our day has made through its old formal limits; as
an expansion and strengthening of the whole
fermentation-process which we call war. The requisition
system, the immense increase in the size of armies by means
of that system, and the general liability to military service, the
employment of militia, are all things which lie in the same
direction, if we make the limited military system of former
days our starting-point; and the levée en masse, or arming of
the people, now lies also in the same direction. If the first
named of these new aids to war are the natural and necessary
consequences of barriers thrown down; and if they have so
enormously increased the power of those who first used them,
that the enemy has been carried along in the current, and
obliged to adopt them likewise, this will be the case also with
people-wars. In the generality of cases, the people who make
judicious use of this means will gain a proportionate

460
superiority over those who despise its use. If this be so, then
the only question is whether this modern intensification of the
military element is, upon the whole, salutary for the interests
of humanity or otherwise – a question which it would be
about as easy to answer as the question of war itself – we
leave both to philosophers. But the opinion may be advanced,
that the resources swallowed up in people’s wars might be
more profitably employed, if used in providing other military
means; no very deep investigation, however, is necessary to
be convinced that these resources are for the most part not
disposable, and cannot be utilised in an arbitrary manner at
pleasure. One essential part, that is the moral element, is not
called into existence until this kind of employment for it
arises.

We therefore do not ask again: how much does the resistance

which the whole nation in arms is capable of making, cost
that nation? but we ask: what is the effect which such a
resistance can produce? What are its conditions, and how is it
to be used?

It follows from the very nature of the thing that defensive

means thus widely dispersed, are not suited to great blows
requiring concentrated action in time and space. Its operation,
like the process of evaporation in physical nature, is
according to the surface. The greater that surface and the
greater the contact with the enemy’s army, consequently the
more that army spreads itself out, so much the greater will be
the effects of arming the nation. Like a slow gradual heat, it
destroys the foundations of the enemy’s army. As it requires
time to produce its effects, therefore whilst the hostile
elements are working on each other, there is a state of tension
which either gradually wears out if the people’s war is

461
extinguished at some points, and burns slowly away at others,
or leads to a crisis, if the flames of this general conflagration
envelop the enemy’s army, and compel it to evacuate the
country to save itself from utter destruction. In order that this
result should be produced by a national war alone, we must
suppose either a surface-extent of the dominions invaded,
exceeding that of any country in Europe, except Russia, or
suppose a disproportion between the strength of the invading
army and the extent of the country, such as never occurs in
reality. Therefore, to avoid following a phantom, we must
imagine a people-war always in combination with a war
carried on by a regular army, and both carried on according to
a plan embracing the operations of the whole.

The conditions under which alone the people’s war can

become effective are the following:

1. That the war is carried on in the heart of the country.

2. That it cannot be decided by a single catastrophe.

3. That the theatre of war embraces a considerable extent of

country.

4. That the national character is favourable to the measure.

5. That the country is of a broken and difficult nature; either

from being mountainous, or by reason of woods and marshes,
or from the peculiar mode of cultivation in use.

Whether the population is dense or otherwise, is of little

consequence, as there is less likelihood of a want of men than
of anything else. Whether the inhabitants are rich or poor is

462
also a point by no means decisive, at least it should not be;
but it must be admitted that a poor population accustomed to
hard work and privations usually shows itself more vigorous
and better suited for war.

One peculiarity of country which greatly favours the action of

war carried on by the people, is the scattered sites of the
dwellings of the country people, such as is to be found in
many parts of Germany. The country is thus more intersected
and covered; the roads are worse although more numerous;
the lodgement of troops is attended with endless difficulties,
but especially that peculiarity repeats itself on a small scale,
which a people-war possesses on a great scale, namely, that
the principle of resistance exists everywhere, but is nowhere
tangible. If the inhabitants are collected in villages, the most
troublesome have troops quartered on them, or they are
plundered as a punishment, and their houses burnt, etc., a
system which could not be very easily carried out with a
peasant community of Westphalia.

National levies and armed peasantry cannot and should not be

employed against the main body of the enemy’s army, or
even against any considerable detachment of the same; they
must not attempt to crack the nut, they must only gnaw on the
surface and the borders. They should rise in the provinces
situated at one of the sides of the theatre of war, and in which
the assailant does not appear in force, in order to withdraw
these provinces entirely from his influence. Where no enemy
is to be found there is no want of courage to oppose him, and
at the example thus given, the mass of the neighbouring
population gradually takes fire. Thus the fire spreads as it
does in heather, and reaching at last that part of the surface of
the soil on which the aggressor is based, it seizes his lines of

463
communication and preys upon the vital thread by which his
existence is supported. For although we entertain no
exaggerated ideas of the omnipotence of a people’s war, such
as that it is an inexhaustible, unconquerable element, over
which the mere force of an army has as little control as the
human will has over the wind or the rain; in short, although
our opinion is not founded on flowery ephemeral literature,
still we must admit that armed peasants are not to be driven
before us in the same way as a body of soldiers who keep
together like a herd of cattle, and usually follow their noses.
Armed peasants, on the contrary, when broken, disperse in all
directions, for which no formal plan is required; through this
circumstance, the march of every small body of troops in a
mountainous, thickly wooded, or even broken country,
becomes a service of a very dangerous character, for at any
moment a combat may arise on the march; if in point of fact
no armed bodies have even been seen for some time, yet the
same peasants already driven off by the head of a column,
may at any hour make their appearance in its rear. If it is an
object to destroy roads or to block up a defile; the means
which outposts or detachments from an army can apply to that
purpose, bear about the same relation to those furnished by a
body of insurgent peasants, as the action of an automaton
does to that of a human being. The enemy has no other means
to oppose to the action of national levies except that of
detaching numerous parties to furnish escorts for convoys, to
occupy military stations, defiles, bridges, etc. In proportion as
the first efforts of the national levies are small, so the
detachments sent out will be weak in numbers, from the
repugnance to a great dispersion of forces; it is on these weak
bodies that the fire of the national war usually first properly
kindles itself, they are overpowered by numbers at some
points, courage rises, the love of fighting gains strength, and

464
the intensity of this struggle increases until the crisis
approaches which is to decide the issue.

According to our idea of a people’s war, it should, like a kind

of nebulous vapoury essence, never condense into a solid
body; otherwise the enemy sends an adequate force against
this core, crushes it, and makes a great many prisoners; their
courage sinks; everyone thinks the main question is decided,
any further effort useless, and the arms fall from the hands of
the people. Still, however, on the other hand, it is necessary
that this mist should collect at some points into denser
masses, and form threatening clouds from which now and
again a formidable flash of lightning may burst forth. These
points are chiefly on the flanks of the enemy’s theatre of war,
as already observed. There the armament of the people should
be organised into greater and more systematic bodies,
supported by a small force of regular troops, so as to give it
the appearance of a regular force and fit it to venture upon
enterprises on a larger scale. From these points, the irregular
character in the organisation of these bodies should diminish
in proportion as they are to be employed more in the direction
of the rear of the enemy, where he is exposed to their hardest
blows. These better organised masses, are for the purpose of
falling upon the larger garrisons which the enemy leaves
behind him. Besides, they serve to create a feeling of
uneasiness and dread, and increase the moral impression of
the whole, without them the total action would be wanting in
force, and the situation of the enemy upon the whole would
not be made sufficiently uncomfortable.

The easiest way for a general to produce this more effective

form of a national armament, is to support the movement by
small detachments sent from the army. Without the support of

465
a few regular troops as an encouragement, the inhabitants
generally want an impulse, and the confidence to take up
arms. The stronger these detachments are, the greater will be
their power of attraction, the greater will be the avalanche
which is to fall down. But this has its limits; partly, first,
because it would be detrimental to the army to cut it up into
detachments, for this secondary object, to dissolve it, as it
were, into a body of irregulars, and form with it in all
directions a weak defensive line, by which we may be sure
both the regular army and national levies alike would become
completely ruined; secondly, partly because experience seems
to tell us that when there are too many regular troops in a
district, the people’s war loses in vigour and efficacy; the
causes of this are in the first place, that too many of the
enemy’s troops are thus drawn into the district, and, in the
second place, that the inhabitants then rely on their own
regular troops, and, thirdly, because the presence of such
large bodies of troops makes too great demands on the powers
of the people in other ways, that is, in providing quarters,
transport, contributions, etc., etc.

Another means of preventing any serious reaction on the part

of the enemy against this popular movement constitutes, at
the same time, a leading principle in the method of using such
levies; this is, that as a rule, with this great strategic means of
defence, a tactical defence should seldom or ever take place.
The character of a combat with national levies is the same as
that of all combats of masses of troops of an inferior quality,
great impetuosity and fiery ardour at the commencement, but
little coolness or tenacity if the combat is prolonged. Further,
the defeat and dispersion of a body of national levies is of no
material consequence, as they lay their account with that, but
a body of this description must not be broken up by losses in

466
killed, wounded, and prisoners; a defeat of that kind would
soon cool their ardour. But both these peculiarities are
entirely opposed to the nature of a tactical defensive. In the
defensive combat a persistent slow systematic action is
required, and great risks must be run; a mere attempt, from
which we can desist as soon as we please, can never lead to
results in the defensive. If, therefore, the national levies are
entrusted with the defence of any particular portion of
territory, care must be taken that the measure does not lead to
a regular great defensive combat; for if the circumstances
were ever so favourable to them, they would be sure to be
defeated. They may, and should, therefore defend the
approaches to mountains, dykes, over marshes,
river-passages, as long as possible; but when once they are
broken, they should rather disperse, and continue their
defence by sudden attacks, than concentrate and allow
themselves to be shut up in some narrow last refuge in a
regular defensive position. However brave a nation may be,
however warlike its habits, however intense its hatred of the
enemy, however favourable the nature of the country, it is an
undeniable fact that a people’s war cannot be kept up in an
atmosphere too full of danger. If, therefore, its combustible
material is to be fanned by any means into a considerable
flame it must be at remote points where there is more air, and
where it cannot be extinguished by one great blow.

After these reflections, which are more of the nature of

subjective impressions than an objective analysis, because the
subject is one as yet of rare occurrence generally, and has
been but imperfectly treated of by those who have had actual
experience for any length of time, we have only to add that
the strategic plan of defence can include in itself the
co-operation of a general arming of the people in two

467
different ways, that is, either as a last resource after a lost
battle, or as a natural assistance before a decisive battle has
been fought. The latter case supposes a retreat into the interior
of the country, and that indirect kind of reaction of which we
have treated in the eighth and twenty-fourth chapters of this
book. We have, therefore, here only to say a few words on the
mission of the national levies after a battle has been lost.

No state should believe its fate, that is, its entire existence, to
be dependent upon one battle, let it be even the most decisive.
If it is beaten, the calling forth fresh power, and the natural
weakening which every offensive undergoes with time, may
bring about a turn of fortune, or assistance may come from
abroad. No such urgent haste to die is needed yet; and as by
instinct the drowning man catches at a straw, so in the natural
course of the moral world a people should try the last means
of deliverance when it sees itself hurried along to the brink of
an abyss.

However small and weak a state may be in comparison to its

enemy, if it foregoes a last supreme effort, we must say there
is no longer any soul left in it. This does not exclude the
possibility of saving itself from complete destruction by the
purchase of peace at a sacrifice; but neither does such an aim
on its part do away with the utility of fresh measures for
defence; they will neither make peace more difficult nor more
onerous, but easier and better. They are still more necessary if
there is an expectation of assistance from those who are
interested in maintaining our political existence. Any
government, therefore, which, after the loss of a great battle,
only thinks how it may speedily place the nation in the lap of
peace, and unmanned by the feeling of great hopes
disappointed, no longer feels in itself the courage or the desire

468
to stimulate to the utmost every element of force, completely
stultifies itself in such case through weakness, and shows
itself unworthy of victory, and, perhaps, just on that account,
was incapable of gaining one.

[...]

469
Chapter xxvii

Defence of a Theatre of War

[...]

The defensive, according to our conception, is nothing but the

stronger form of combat. The preservation of our own forces
and the destruction of those of the enemy – in a word, the
victory – is the aim of this contest, but at the same time not its
ultimate object.

That object is the preservation of our own political state and

the subjugation of that of the enemy; or again, in one word,
the desired peace, because it is only by it that this conflict
adjusts itself, and ends in a common result.

But what is the enemy’s state in connection with war? Above

all things its military force is important, then its territory; but
certainly there are also still many other things which, through
particular circumstances, may obtain a predominant
importance; to these belong, before all, foreign and domestic
political relations, which sometimes decide more than all the
rest. But although the military force and the territory of the
enemy alone are still not the state itself, nor are they the only
connections which the state may have with the war, still these
two things are always preponderating, mostly immeasurably
surpassing all other connections in importance. Military force
is to protect the territory of the state, or to conquer that of an
enemy; the territory on the other hand, constantly nourishes
and renovates the military force. The two, therefore, depend
on each other, mutually support each other, are equal in

470
importance one to the other. But still there is a difference in
their mutual relations. If the military force is destroyed, that is
completely defeated, rendered incapable of further resistance,
then the loss of the territory follows of itself; but on the other
hand, the destruction of the military force by no means
follows from the conquest of the country, because that force
may of its own accord evacuate the territory in order
afterwards to reconquer it the more easily. Indeed, not only
does the complete destruction of its army decide the fate of a
country, but even every considerable weakening of its
military force leads regularly to a loss of territory; on the
other hand, every considerable loss of territory does not cause
a proportionate diminution of military power; in the long run
it will do so, but not always within the space of time in which
a war is brought to a close.

From this it follows that the preservation of our own military

power, and the diminution or destruction of that of the enemy,
take precedence in importance over the occupation of
territory, and, therefore, is the first object which a general
should strive for. The possession of territory only presses for
consideration as an object if that means (diminution or
destruction of the enemy’s military force) has not effected it.

If the whole of the enemy’s military power was united in one

army, and if the whole war consisted of one battle, then the
possession of the country would depend on the issue of that
battle; destruction of the enemy’s military forces, conquest of
his country and security of our own, would follow from that
result, and, in a certain measure, be identical with it. Now the
question is, what can induce the defensive to deviate from this
simplest form of the act of warfare, and distribute his power
in space? The answer is, the insufficiency of the victory

471
which he might gain with all his forces united. Every victory
has its sphere of influence. If this extends over the whole of
the enemy’s state, consequently over the whole of his military
force and his territory, that is, if all the parts are carried along
in the same movement, which we have impressed upon the
core of his power, then such a victory is all that we require,
and a division of our forces would not be justified by
sufficient grounds. But if there are portions of the enemy’s
military force, and of country belonging to either party, over
which our victory would have no effect, then we must give
particular attention to those parts; and as we cannot unite
territory like a military force in one point, therefore we must
divide our forces for the purpose of attacking or defending
those portions.

[...]

The effect of a victory will naturally depend on its greatness,

and that on the mass of the conquered troops. Therefore the
blow which, if successful, will produce the greatest effect,
must be made against that part of the country where the
greatest number of the enemy’s forces are collected together;
and the greater the mass of our own forces which we use for
this blow, so much the surer shall we be of this success. This
natural sequence of ideas leads us to an illustration by which
we shall see this truth more clearly; it is the nature and effect
of the centre of gravity in mechanics.

As a centre of gravity is always situated where the greatest

mass of matter is collected, and as a shock against the centre
of gravity of a body always produces the greatest effect, and
further, as the most effective blow is struck with the centre of
gravity of the power used, so it is also in war. The armed

472
forces of every belligerent, whether of a single state or of an
alliance of states, have a certain unity, and in that way,
connection; but where connection is there come in analogies
of the centre of gravity. There are, therefore, in these armed
forces certain centres of gravity, the movement and direction
of which decide upon other points, and these centres of
gravity are situated where the greatest bodies of troops are
assembled. But just as, in the world of inert matter, the action
against the centre of gravity has its measure and limits in the
connection of the parts, so it is in war, and here as well as
there the force exerted may easily be greater than the
resistance requires, and then there is a blow in the air, a waste
of force.

What a difference there is between the solidity of an army

under one standard, led into battle under the personal
command of one general, and that of an allied army extended
over two hundred and fifty or five hundred miles, or it may be
even based upon quite different sides (of the theatre of war).
There we see coherence in the strongest degree, unity most
complete; here unity in a very remote degree often only
existing in the political view held in common, and in that also
in a miserable and insufficient degree, the cohesion of parts
mostly very weak, often quite an illusion.

Therefore, if on the one hand, the violence with which we

wish to strike the blow prescribes the greatest concentration
of force, so in like manner, on the other hand, we have to fear
every undue excess as a real evil, because it entails a waste of
power, and that in turn a deficiency of power at other points.

To distinguish these ‘centra gravitatis’ in the enemy’s military

power, to discern their spheres of action is, therefore, a

473
supreme act of strategic judgment. We must constantly ask
ourselves, what effect the advance or retreat of part of the
forces on either side will produce on the rest.

We do not by this lay claim in any way to the discovery of a

new method, we have only sought to explain the foundation
of the method of all generals, in every age, in a manner which
may place its connection with the nature of things in a clearer
light.

[...]

474
Book VII

The Attack

475
***

476
Chapter ii

Nature of the Strategical Attack

We have seen that the defensive in war generally – therefore,

also, the strategic defensive – is no absolute state of
expectancy and warding off, therefore no completely passive
state, but that it is a relative state, and consequently
impregnated more or less with offensive principles. In the
same way the offensive is no homogeneous whole, but
incessantly mixed up with the defensive. But there is this
difference between the two, that a defensive, without an
offensive return blow, cannot be conceived; that this return
blow is a necessary constituent part of the defensive, whilst in
the attack, the blow or act is in itself one complete idea. The
defence in itself is not necessarily a part of the attack; but
time and space, to which it is inseparably bound, import into
it the defensive as a necessary evil. For in the first place, the
attack cannot be continued uninterruptedly up to its
conclusion, it must have stages of rest, and in these stages,
when its action is neutralised, the state of defence steps in of
itself; in the second place, the space which a military force, in
its advance, leaves behind it, and which is essential to its
existence, cannot always be covered by the attack itself, but
must be specially protected.

The act of attack in war, but particularly in that branch which

is called strategy, is therefore a perpetual alternating and
combining of attack and defence; but the latter is not to be
regarded as an effectual preparation for attack, as a means by
which its force is heightened, that is to say, not as an active
principle, but purely as a necessary evil; as the retarding

477
weight arising from the specific gravity of the mass; it is its
original sin, its seed of mortality. We say: a retarding weight,
because if the defence does not contribute to strengthen the
attack, it must tend to diminish its effect by the very loss of
time which it represents.

[...]

Every attack must lead to a defence; what is to be the result of

that defence depends on circumstances: these circumstances
may be very favourable if the enemy’s forces are destroyed;
but they may be very unfavourable if such is not the case.
Although this defensive does not belong to the attack itself,
its nature and effects must react on the attack, and must take
part in determining its value.

The deduction from this view is, that in every attack the
defensive, which is necessarily an inherent feature in the
same, must come into consideration, in order to see clearly
the disadvantages to which it is subject, and to be prepared for
them.

[...]

478
Chapter iii

Of the Objects of Strategical Attack

The overthrow of the enemy is the aim in war; destruction of

the hostile military forces, the means both in attack and
defence. By the destruction of the enemy’s military force the
defensive is led on to the offensive, the offensive is led by it
to the conquest of territory. Territory is, therefore, the object
of the attack; but that need not be a whole country; may be
confined to a part, a province, a strip of country, a fortress.
All these things may have a substantial value from their
political importance, in treating for peace, whether they are
retained or exchanged.

The object of the strategic attack is, therefore, conceivable in

an infinite number of gradations, from the conquest of the
whole country down to that of some insignificant place. As
soon as this object is attained, and the attack ceases, the
defensive commences. We may, therefore, represent to
ourselves the strategic attack as a distinctly limited unit. But it
is not so if we consider the matter practically, that is in
accordance with actual phenomena. Practically the moments
of the attacks, that is, its views and measures, often glide just
as imperceptibly into the defence as the plans of the defence
into the offensive. It is seldom, or at all events not always,
that a general lays down positively for himself what he will
conquer, he leaves that dependent on the course of events. His
attack often leads him further than he had intended; after rest
more or less, he often gets renewed strength, without our
being obliged to make out of this two quite different acts; at
another time he is brought to a standstill sooner than he

479
expected without, however, giving up his intentions, and
changing to a real defensive. We see, therefore, that if the
successful defence may change imperceptibly into the
offensive; so on the other hand an attack may, in like manner,
change into a defence. These gradations must be kept in view,
in order to avoid making a wrong application of what we have
to say of the attack in general.

480
Chapter iv

Decreasing Force of the Attack

This is one of the principal points in strategy: on its right

valuation in the concrete, depends our being able to judge
correctly what we are able to do.

The decrease of absolute power arises through:

1. The object of the attack, the occupation of the enemy’s

country; this generally commences first after the first
decision, but the attack does not cease upon the first decision.

2. The necessity imposed on the attacking army to guard the

country in its rear, in order to preserve its line of
communication and means of subsistence.

3. Losses in action, and sickness.

4. Distance of the various depots of supplies and

reinforcements.

5. Sieges and blockades of fortresses.

6. Relaxation of efforts.

7. Secession of allies.

But frequently, in opposition to these weakening causes, there

may be many others which contribute to strengthen the attack.
It is clear, at all events, that a net result can only be obtained

481
by comparing these different quantities; thus, for example, the
weakening of the attack may be partly or completely
compensated, or even surpassed by the weakening of the
defensive. This last is a case which rarely happens.

[...]

482
Chapter v

Culminating Point of the Attack

The success of the attack is the result of a present superiority

of force, it being understood that the moral as much as
physical forces are included. In the preceding chapter we have
shown that the power of the attack gradually exhausts itself;
possibly at the same time the superiority may increase, but in
most cases it diminishes. The assailant buys up prospective
advantages which are to be turned to account hereafter in
negotiations for peace; but, in the meantime, he has to pay
down on the spot for them a certain amount of this military
force. If a preponderance on the side of the attack, although
thus daily diminishing, is still maintained until peace is
concluded, the object is attained. There are strategic attacks
which have led to an immediate peace – but such instances
are rare; the majority, on the contrary, lead only to a point at
which the forces remaining are just sufficient to maintain a
defensive, and to wait for peace. Beyond that point the scale
turns, there is a reaction; the violence of such a reaction is
commonly much greater than the force of the blow. This we
call the culminating point of the attack. As the object of the
attack is the possession of the enemy’s territory, it follows
that the advance must continue till the superiority is
exhausted; this cause, therefore, impels us towards the
ultimate object, and may easily lead us beyond it. If we reflect
upon the number of the elements of which an equation of the
forces in action is composed, we may conceive how difficult
it is in many cases to determine which of two opponents has
the superiority on his side. Often all hangs on the silken
thread of imagination.

483
Everything then depends on discovering the culminating point
by the fine tact of judgement.

[...]

484
Chapter vi

Destruction of the Enemy’s Armies

The destruction of the enemy’s armed forces is the means to

the end – What is meant by this – The price it costs –
Different points of view which are possible in respect to the
subject.

1. Only to destroy as many as the object of the attack requires.

2. Or as many on the whole as is possible.

3. The sparing of our own forces as the principal point of

view.

4. This may again be carried so far, that the assailant does

nothing towards the destruction of the enemy’s force except
when a favourable opportunity offers, which may also be the
case with regard to the object of the attack, as already
mentioned in the third chapter.

The only means of destroying the enemy’s armed force is by

combat, but this may be done in two ways: 1) directly, 2)
indirectly, through a combination of combats. If, therefore,
the battle is the chief means, still it is not the only means. The
capture of a fortress or of a portion of territory is in itself
really a destruction of the enemy’s force, and it may also lead
to a still greater destruction, and therefore, also, be an indirect
means.

485
The occupation of an undefended strip of territory, therefore,
in addition to the value which it has as a direct fulfilment of
the end, may also reckon as a destruction of the enemy’s force
as well. The manoeuvring, so as to draw an enemy out of a
district of country which he has occupied, is somewhat
similar, and must, therefore, only be looked at from the same
point of view, and not as a success of arms, properly
speaking. These means are generally estimated at more than
they are worth – they have seldom the value of a battle;
besides which it is always to be feared that the
disadvantageous position to which they lead will be
overlooked; they are seductive through the low price which
they cost.

[...]

486
Chapter vii

The Offensive Battle

[...]

As it is an object with the commander in the defensive battle

to delay the decision as long as possible, and gain time,
because a defensive battle undecided at sunset is commonly
one gained: therefore the commander, in the offensive battle,
requires to hasten the decision; but, on the other hand, there is
a great risk in too much haste, because it leads to a waste of
forces. One peculiarity in the offensive battle is the
uncertainty, in most cases, as to the position of the enemy; it
is a complete groping about amongst things that are unknown
(Austerlitz, Wagram, Hohenlinden, Jena, Katzbach). The
more this is the case, so much the more concentration of
forces becomes paramount and turning a flank to be preferred
to surrounding.

[...]

487
***

488
Chapter ix

Attack of Defensive Positions

In the book on the defence, it has been sufficiently explained

how far defensive positions can compel the assailant either to
attack them, or to give up his advance. Only those which can
effect this are subservient to our object, and suited to wear out
or neutralise the forces of the aggressor, either wholly or in
part, and in so far the attack can do nothing against such
positions, that is to say, there are no means at its disposal by
which to counterbalance this advantage. But defensive
positions are not all really of this kind. If the assailant sees he
can pursue his object without attacking such a position, it
would be an error to make the attack; if he cannot follow out
his object, then it is a question whether he cannot manoeuvre
the enemy out of his position by threatening his flank. It is
only if such means are ineffectual, that a commander
determines on the attack of a good position, and then an
attack directed against one side, always in general presents
the less difficulty; but the choice of the side must depend on
the position and direction of the mutual lines of retreat,
consequently, on the threatening the enemy’s retreat, and
covering our own.

[...]

But it is certain, and may be regarded as a truth of the first

importance, that to attack an enemy thoroughly inured to
War, in a good position, is a critical thing.

[...]

489
Chapter x

Attack of an Entrenched Camp

[...]

Not only reason but experience, in hundreds and thousands of

instances, show that a well-traced, sufficiently manned, and
well-defended entrenchment is, as a rule, to be looked upon as
an impregnable point, and is also so regarded by the attack.
Starting from this point of the efficiency of a single
entrenchment, we argue that there can be no doubt as to the
attack of an entrenched camp being a most difficult
undertaking, and one in which generally it will be impossible
for the assailant to succeed.

[...]

We therefore think that the attack of an entrenched camp

belongs to the category of quite exceptional means on the part
of the offensive. It is only if the entrenchments have been
thrown up in haste, are not completed, still less strengthened,
by obstacles to prevent their being approached, or when, as is
often the case taken altogether, the whole camp is only an
outline of what it was intended to be, a half-finished ruin, that
then an attack on it may be advisable, and at the same time
become the road to gain an easy conquest over the enemy.

[...]

490
***

491
Book VIII

Plan of War

492
Chapter i

Introduction

[...]

We now return to war as a whole, as we propose to speak of

the Plan of war, and of campaigns; and that obliges us to
revert to the ideas in our first book.

[...]

If, on the one hand, we see how extremely simple the

operations of war appear; if we hear and read how the greatest
generals speak of it, just in the plainest and briefest manner,
how the government and management of this ponderous
machine, with its hundred thousand limbs, is made no more of
in their lips than if they were only speaking of their own
persons, so that the whole tremendous act of war is
individualised into a kind of duel; if we find the motives also
of their action brought into connection sometimes with a few
simple ideas, sometimes with some excitement of feeling; if
we see the easy, sure, we might almost say light manner, in
which they treat the subject – and now see, on the other hand,
the immense number of circumstances which present
themselves for the consideration of the mind; the long, often
indefinite distances to which the threads of the subject run out
and the number of combinations which lie before us; if we
reflect that it is the duty of theory to embrace all this
systematically, that is with clearness and fullness, and always
to refer the action to the necessity of a sufficient cause, then
comes upon us an overpowering dread of being dragged down

493
to a pedantic dogmatism, to crawl about in the lower regions
of heavy abstruse conceptions, where we shall never meet any
great captain, with his natural coup d’oeil. If the result of an
attempt at theory is to be of this kind, it would have been as
well, or rather, it would have been better, not to have made
the attempt; it could only bring down on theory the contempt
of genius, and the attempt itself would soon be forgetten. And
on the other hand, this facile coup d’oeil of the general, this
simple art of forming notions, this personification of the
whole action of war, is so entirely and completely the soul of
the right method of conducting war, that in no other but this
broad way is it possible to conceive that freedom of the mind
which is indispensable if it is to dominate events, not to be
overpowered by them.

With some fear we proceed again; we can only do so by

pursuing the way which we have prescribed for ourselves
from the first. Theory ought to throw a clear light on the mass
of objects, that the mind may the easier find its bearings;
theory ought to pull up the weeds which error has sown
broadcast; it should show the relations of things to each other,
separate the important from the trifling. Where ideas resolve
themselves spontaneously into such a core of truth as is called
principle, when they of themselves keep such a line as forms
a rule, theory should indicate the same.

Whatever the mind seizes, the rays of light which are

awakened in it by this exploration amongst the fundamental
notions of things, that is the assistance which theory affords
the mind. Theory can give no formulas with which to solve
problems; it cannot confine the mind’s course to the narrow
line of necessity by principle set up on both sides. It lets the
mind take a look at the mass of objects and their relations,

494
and then allows it to go free to the higher regions of action,
there to act according to the measure of its natural forces,
with the energy of the whole of those forces combined, and to
grasp the true and the right, as one single clear idea, which,
shooting forth from under the united pressure of all these
forces, would seem to be rather a product of feeling than of
reflection.

495
Chapter ii

Absolute and Real War

The plan of the war comprehends the whole military act;

through it that act becomes a whole, which must have one
final determinate object, in which all particular objects must
become absorbed. No war is commenced or, at least, no war
should be commenced, if people acted wisely, without first
seeking a reply to the question, What is to be attained by and
in the same? The first is the final object; the other is the
intermediate aim. By this chief consideration the whole
course of the war is prescribed, the extent of the means and
the measure of energy are determined; its influence manifests
itself down to the smallest organ of action.

We said in the first chapter, that the overthrow of the enemy

is the natural end of the act of war; and that if we would keep
within the strictly philosophical limits of the idea, there can
be no other in reality.

As this idea must apply to both the belligerent parties it must

follow, that there can be no suspension in the military act, and
peace cannot take place until one or other of the parties
concerned is overthrown.

In the chapter on the suspension of the belligerent act we have

shown how the simple principle of hostility applied to its
embodiment, man, and all circumstances out of which it
makes a war, is subject to checks and modifications from
causes which are inherent in the apparatus of war.

496
But this modification is not nearly sufficient to carry us from
the original conception of war to the concrete form in which it
almost everywhere appears. Most wars appear only as an
angry feeling on both sides, under the influence of which,
each side takes up arms to protect himself, and to put his
adversary in fear, and, when opportunity offers, to strike a
blow. They are, therefore, not like mutually destructive
elements brought into collision, but like tensions of two
elements still apart which discharge themselves in small
partial shocks.

But what is now the non-conducting medium which hinders

the complete discharge? Why is the philosophical conception
not satisfied? That medium consists in the number of
interests, forces, and circumstances of various kinds, in the
existence of the state, which are affected by the war, and
through the infinite ramifications of which the logical
consequence cannot be carried out as it would on the simple
threads of a few conclusions; in this labyrinth it sticks fast,
and man, who in great things as well as in small, usually acts
more on the impulse of ideas and feelings, than according to
strictly logical conclusions, is hardly conscious of his
confusion, unsteadiness of purpose, and inconsistency .

But if the intelligence by which the war is decreed could even

go over all these things relating to the war, without for a
moment losing sight of its aim, still all the other intelligences
in the state which are concerned may not be able to do the
same; thus an opposition arises, and with that comes the
necessity for a force capable of overcoming the inertia of the
whole mass – a force which is seldom forthcoming to the full.

497
This inconsistency takes place on one or other of the two
sides, or it may be on both sides, and becomes the cause of
the war being something quite different to what it should be,
according to the conception of it – a half-and-half production,
a thing without a perfect inner cohesion.

This is how we find it almost everywhere, and we might

doubt whether our notion of its absolute character or nature
was founded in reality, if we had not seen real warfare make
its appearance in this absolute completeness just in our own
times. After a short introduction performed by the French
Revolution, the impetuous Bonaparte quickly brought it to
this point. Under him it was carried on without slackening for
a moment until the enemy was prostrated, and the counter
stroke followed almost with as little remission. Is it not
natural and necessary that this phenomenon should lead us
back to the original conception of war with all its rigorous
deductions?

Shall we now rest satisfied with this idea, and judge of all
wars according to it, however much they may differ from it –
deduce from it all the requirements of theory?

We must decide upon this point, for we can say nothing

trustworthy on the plan of war until we have made up our
minds whether war should only be of this kind, or whether it
may be of another kind.

If we give an affirmative to the first, then our theory will be,

in all respects, nearer to the necessary, it will be a clearer and
more settled thing. But what should we say then of all wars
since those of Alexander up to the time of Bonaparte, if we
except some campaigns of the Romans? We should have to

498
reject them in a lump and yet we cannot, perhaps, do so
without being ashamed of our presumption. But an additional
evil is, that we must say to ourselves, that in the next ten
years there may perhaps be a war of that same kind again, in
spite of our theory; and that this theory, with a rigorous logic,
is still quite powerless against the force of circumstances. We
must, therefore, decide to construe war as it is to be, and not
from pure conception, but by allowing room for everything of
a foreign nature which mixes up with it and fastens itself
upon it – all the natural inertia and friction of its parts, the
whole of the inconsistency, the vagueness and hesitation (or
timidity) of the human mind: we shall have to grasp the idea
that war, and the form which we give it, proceeds from ideas,
feelings, and circumstances which dominate for the moment;
indeed, if we would be perfectly candid we must admit that
this has even been the case where it has taken its absolute
character, that is, under Bonaparte.

If we must do so, if we must grant that war originates and

takes its form not from a final adjustment of the innumerable
relations with which it is connected, but from some amongst
them which happen to predominate, then it follows, as a
matter of course, that it rests upon a play of possibilities,
probabilities, good fortune and bad, in which rigorous logical
deduction often gets lost, and in which it is in general a
useless, inconvenient instrument for the head; then it also
follows that war may be a thing which is sometimes war in a
greater, sometimes in a lesser degree.

All this, theory must admit, but it is its duty to give the
foremost place to the absolute form of war, and to use that
form as a general point of direction, that whoever wishes to
learn something from theory, may accustom himself never to

499
lose sight of it, to regard it as the natural measure of all his
hopes and fears, in order to approach it where he can, or
where he must.

[...]

500
Chapter iii

A. Interdependence of the Parts in a War

According as we have in view the absolute form of war or one

of the real forms deviating more or less from it, so likewise
different notions of its result will arise.

In the absolute form, where everything is the effect of its

natural and necessary cause, one thing follows another in
rapid succession; there is, if we may use the expression, no
neutral space; there is – on account of the manifold
reactionary effects which war contains in itself, on account of
the connection in which, strictly speaking, the whole series of
combats follow one after another, on account of the
culminating point which every victory has, beyond which
losses and defeats commence – on account of all these natural
relations of war there is, I say, only one result, to wit, the final
result. Until it takes place nothing is decided, nothing won,
nothing lost. Here we may say indeed: the end crowns the
work. In this view, therefore, war is an indivisible whole, the
parts of which (the subordinate results) have no value except
in their relation to this whole.

[...]

To this view of the relative connection of results in war,

which may be regarded as extreme, stands opposed another
extreme, according to which war is composed of single
independent results, in which, as in any number of games
played, the preceding has no influence on the next following;
everything here, therefore, depends only on the sum total of

501
the results, and we can lay up each single one like a counter at
play.

Just as the first kind of view derives its truth from the nature
of things, so we find that of the second in history. There are
cases without number in which a small moderate advantage
might have been gained without any very onerous condition
being attached to it. The more the element of war is modified
the more common these cases become; but as little as the first
of the views now imagined was ever completely realised in
any war, just as little is there any war in which the last suits in
all respects, and the first can be dispensed with.

If we keep to the first of these supposed views, we must

perceive the necessity of every war being looked upon as a
whole from the very commencement, and that at the very first
step forwards, the commander should have in his eye the
object to which every line must converge.

If we admit the second view, then subordinate advantages

may be pursued on their own account, and the rest left to
subsequent events.

As neither of these forms of conception is entirely without

result, therefore theory cannot dispense with either. But it
makes this difference in the use of them, that it requires the
first to be laid as a fundamental idea at the root of everything,
and that the latter shall only be used as a modification which
is justified by circumstances.

[...]

502
Theory demands, therefore, that at the commencement of
every war its character and main outline shall be defined
according to what the political conditions and relations lead
us to anticipate as probable. The more that, according to this
probability, its character approaches the form of absolute war;
the more its outline embraces the mass of the belligerent
states and draws them into the vortex, so much the more
complete will be the relation of events to one another and the
whole, but so much the more necessary will it also be not to
take the first step without thinking what may be the last.

B. Of the Magnitude of the Object of the War and the Efforts

to be Made

The compulsion which we must use towards our enemy will

be regulated by the proportions of our own and his political
demands. In so far as these are mutually known they will give
the measure of the mutual efforts; but they are not always
quite so evident, and this may be a first ground of a difference
in the means adopted by each.

The situation and relations of the states are not like each
other; this may become a second cause.

The strength of will, the character and capabilities of the

governments are as little like; this is a third cause.

These three elements cause an uncertainty in the calculation

of the amount of resistance to be expected, consequently an
uncertainty as to the amount of means to be applied and the
object to be chosen.

503
As in war the want of sufficient exertion may result not only
in failure but in positive harm, therefore, the two sides
respectively seek to outstrip each other, which produces a
reciprocal action.

This might lead to the utmost extremity of exertion, if it were

possible to define such a point. But then regard for the
amount of the political demands would be lost, the means
would lose all relation to the end, and in most cases this aim
at an extreme effort would be wrecked by the opposing
weight of forces within itself.

In this manner, he who undertakes war is brought back again

into a middle course, in which he acts to a certain extent upon
the principle of only applying so much force and aiming at
such an object in war as is just sufficient for the attainment of
its political object. To make this principle practicable he must
renounce every absolute necessity of a result, and throw out
of the calculation remote contingencies.

Here, therefore, the action of the mind leaves the province of

science, strictly speaking, of logic and mathematics, and
becomes in the widest sense of the term an art, that is, skill in
discriminating, by the tact of judgement among an infinite
multitude of objects and relations, that which is the most
important and decisive. This tact of judgement consists
unquestionably more or less in some intuitive comparison of
things and relations by which the remote and unimportant are
more quickly set aside, and the more immediate and
important are sooner discovered than they could be by strictly
logical deduction.

504
In order to ascertain the real scale of the means which we
must put forth for war, we must think over the political object
both on our own side and on the enemy’s side; we must
consider the power and position of the enemy’s state as well
as of our own, the character of his government and of his
people, and the capacities of both, and all that again on our
own side, and the political connections of other states, and the
effect which the war will produce on those states. That the
determination of these diverse circumstances and their diverse
connections with each other is an immense problem, that it is
the true flash of genius which discovers here in a moment
what is right, and that it would be quite out of the question to
become master of the complexity merely by a methodical
study, it is easy to conceive.

In this sense Bonaparte was quite right when he said that it

would be a problem in algebra before which a Newton might
stand aghast.

[...]

First of all, therefore, we must admit that the judgement on an

approaching war, on the end to which it should be directed,
and on the means which are required, can only be formed
after a full consideration of the whole of the circumstances in
connection with it: with which therefore must also be
combined the most individual traits of the moment; next, that
this decision, like all in military life, cannot be purely
objective, but must be determined by the mental and moral
qualities of princes, statesmen, and generals, whether they are
united in the person of one man or not.

505
The subject becomes general and more fit to be treated of in
the abstract if we look at the general relations in which states
have been placed by circumstances at different times. We
must allow ourselves here a passing glance at history.

Half-civilised Tartars, the republics of ancient times, the

feudal lords and commercial cities of the Middle Ages, kings
of the eighteenth century, and, lastly, princes and people of
the nineteenth century, all carry on war in their own way,
carry it on differently, with different means, and for a
different object.

The Tartars seek new abodes. They march out as a nation

with their wives and children, they are, therefore, greater than
any other army in point of numbers, and their object is to
make the enemy submit or expel him altogether. By these
means they would soon overthrow everything before them if a
high degree of civilisation could be made compatible with
such a condition.

The old republics, with the exception of Rome, were of small

extent; still smaller their armies, for they excluded the great
mass of the populace; they were too numerous and lay too
close together not to find an obstacle to great enterprises in
the natural equilibrium in which small separate parts always
place themselves according to the general law of nature:
therefore their wars were confined to devastating the open
country and taking some towns in order to ensure to
themselves in these a certain degree of influence for the
future.

Rome alone forms an exception, but not until the later period
of its history. For a long time, by means of small bands, it

506
carried on the usual warfare with its neighbours for booty and
alliances. It became great more through the alliances which it
formed, and through which neighbouring peoples by degrees
became amalgamated with it into one whole, than through
actual conquests. It was only after having spread itself in this
manner all over southern Italy, that it began to advance as a
really conquering power. Carthage fell, Spain and Gaul were
conquered, Greece subdued, and its dominion extended to
Egypt and Asia. At this period its military power was
immense, without its efforts being in the same proportion.
These forces were kept up by its riches; it no longer
resembled the ancient republics, nor itself as it had been; it
stands alone.

Just as peculiar in their way are the wars of Alexander. With a

small army, but distinguished for its intrinsic perfection, he
overthrew the decayed fabric of the Asiatic states; without
rest, and regardless of risks, he traverses the breadth of Asia,
and penetrates into India. No republics could do this. Only a
king, in a certain measure his own condottiere, could get
through so much so quickly.

The great and small monarchies of the Middle Ages carried

on their wars with feudal levies. Everything was then
restricted to a short period of time; whatever could not be
done in that time was held to be impracticable. The feudal
force itself was raised through an organisation of vassaldom;
the bond which held it together was partly legal obligation,
partly a voluntary contract; the whole formed a real
confederation. The armament and tactics were based on the
right of might, on single combat, and therefore little suited to
large bodies. In fact, at no period has the union of states been
so weak, and the individual citizen so independent. All this

507
influenced the character of the wars at that period in the most
distinct manner. They were comparatively rapidly carried out,
there was little time spent idly in camps, but the object was
generally only punishing, not subduing the enemy. They
carried off his cattle, burnt his towns, and then returned home
again.

The great commercial towns and small republics brought

forward the condottieri. That was as an expensive, and
therefore, as far as visible strength, a very limited military
force; as for its intensive strength, it was of still less value in
that respect; so far from their showing anything like extreme
energy or impetuosity in the field, their combats were
generally only sham-fights. In a word, hatred and enmity no
longer roused a state to personal activity, but had become
articles of trade; war lost a great part of its danger, altered
completely its nature, and nothing we can say of the character
it then assumed would be applicable to it in its reality.

The feudal system condensed itself by degrees into a decided

territorial supremacy; the ties binding the state together
became closer; obligations which concerned the person were
made the subject of composition; by degrees gold became the
substitute in most cases, and the feudal levies were turned
into mercenaries. The condottieri formed the connecting-link
in the change, and were therefore, for a time, the instrument
of the more powerful states; but this had not lasted long when
the soldier, hired for a limited term, was turned into a
standing mercenary, and the military force of states now
became an army, having its base in the public treasury.

It is only natural that the slow advance to this stage caused a

diversified interweaving of all three kinds of military force.

508
Under Henry IV we find the feudal contingents, condottieri,
and standing army all employed together. The condottieri
carried on their existence up to the period of the Thirty Years’
War, indeed there are some slight traces of them even in the
eighteenth century.

The other relations of the states of Europe at these different

periods were quite as peculiar as their military forces. Upon
the whole this part of the world had split up into a mass of
petty states, partly republics in a state of internal dissension,
partly small monarchies in which the power of the
government was very limited and insecure. A state in either of
these cases could not be considered as a real unity; it was
rather an agglomeration of loosely connected forces. Neither,
therefore, could such a state be considered an intelligent
being, acting in accordance with simple logical rules.

It is from this point of view we must look at the foreign

politics and wars of the Middle Ages. Let us only think of the
continual expeditions of the Emperors of Germany into Italy
for five centuries, without any substantial conquest of that
country resulting from them, or even having been so much as
in view. It is easy to look upon this as a fault repeated over
and over again – as a false view which had its root in the
nature of the times; but it is more in accordance with reason
to regard it as the consequence of a hundred important causes
which we can partially realise in idea, but the vital energy of
which it is impossible for us to understand so vividly as those
who were brought into actual conflict with them. As long as
the great states which have risen out of this chaos require time
to consolidate and organise themselves, their whole power
and energy is chiefly directed to that point; their foreign wars

509
are few, and those that took place bear the stamp of a state
unity not yet well cemented.

The wars between France and England are the first that
appear, and yet at that time France is not to be considered as
really a monarchy, but as an agglomeration of dukedoms and
countships; England, although bearing more the semblance of
a unity, still fought with the feudal organisation, and was
hampered by serious domestic troubles.

Under Louis XI, France made its greatest step towards

internal unity; under Charles VIII it appears in Italy as a
power bent on conquest; and under Louis XIV it had brought
its political state and its standing army to the highest
perfection.

Spain attains to unity under Ferdinand the Catholic; through

accidental marriage connections, under Charles V suddenly
arose the great Spanish monarchy, composed of Spain,
Burgundy, Germany, and Italy united. What this colossus
wanted in unity and internal political cohesion, it made up for
by gold, and its standing army came for the first time into
collision with the standing army of France. After Charles’s
abdication, the great Spanish colossus split into two parts,
Spain and Austria. The latter, strengthened by the acquisition
of Bohemia and Hungary, now appears on the scene as a great
power, towing the German Confederation like a small vessel
behind her.

The end of the seventeenth century, the time of Louis XIV, is

to be regarded as the point in history at which the standing
military power, such as it existed in the eighteenth century,
reached the zenith. That military force was based on

510
enlistment and money. States had organised themselves into
complete unities and the governments, by commuting the
personal obligations of their subjects into a money payment,
had concentrated their whole power in their treasuries.
Through the rapid strides in social improvements, and a more
enlightened system of government, this power had become
very great in comparison to what it had been. France appeared
in the field with a standing army of a couple of hundred
thousand men, and the other powers in proportion.

The other relations of states had likewise altered. Europe was

divided into a dozen kingdoms and two republics; it was now
conceivable that two of these powers might fight with each
other without ten times as many others being mixed up in the
quarrel, as would certainly have been the case formerly. The
possible combinations in political relations were still
manifold, but they could be discerned and determined from
time to time according to probability.

Internal relations had almost everywhere settled down into a

pure monarchical form; the rights and influence of privileged
bodies or estates had gradually died away, and the Cabinet
had become a complete unity, acting for the state in all its
external relations. The time had therefore come when a
suitable instrument and a despotic will could give war a form
in accordance with the theoretical conception.

And at this epoch appeared three new Alexanders – Gustavus

Adolphus, Charles XII, and Frederick the Great, whose aim
was, by small but highly disciplined armies, to raise little
states to the rank of great monarchies, and to throw down
everything that opposed them. Had they only had to deal with
Asiatic states they would have more closely resembled

511
Alexander in the parts they acted. In any case, we may look
upon them as the precursors of Bonaparte as respects that
which may be risked in war.

But what war gained on the one side in force and consistency
was lost again on the other side.

Armies were supported out of the treasury, which the

sovereign regarded partly as his private purse, or at least as a
resource belonging to the government, and not to the people.
Relations with other states, except with respect to a few
commercial subjects, mostly concerned only the interests of
the treasury or of the government, not those of the people; at
least ideas tended everywhere in that way. The Cabinets,
therefore, looked upon themselves as the owners and
administrators of large estates, which they were continually
seeking to increase without the tenants on these estates being
particularly interested in this improvement. The people,
therefore, who in the Tartar invasions were everything in war,
who, in the old republics, and in the Middle Ages (if we
restrict the idea to those possessing the rights of citizens),
were of great consequence, were in the eighteenth century
absolutely nothing directly, having only still an indirect
influence on the war, through their virtues and faults.

In this manner, in proportion as the government separated

itself from the people, and regarded itself as the state, war
became more exclusively a business of the government,
which it carried on by means of the money in its coffers and
the idle vagabonds it could pick up in its own and
neighbouring countries. The consequence of this was, that the
means which the government could command had tolerably
well-defined limits, which could be mutually estimated, both

512
as to their extent and duration; this robbed war of its most
dangerous feature: namely, the effort towards the extreme,
and the hidden series of possibilities connected therewith.

The financial means, the contents of the treasury, the state of

credit of the enemy, were approximately known as well as the
size of his army. Any large increase of these at the outbreak
of a war was impossible. Inasmuch as the limits of the
enemy’s power could thus be judged of, a state felt tolerably
secure from complete subjugation, and as the state was
conscious at the same time of the limits of its own means, it
saw itself restricted to a moderate aim. Protected from an
extreme, there was no necessity to venture on an extreme.
Necessity no longer giving an impulse in that direction, that
impulse could only now be given by courage and ambition.
But these found a powerful counterpoise in the political
relations. Even kings in command were obliged to use the
instrument of war with caution. If the army was dispersed, no
new one could be got, and except the army there was nothing.
This imposed as a necessity great prudence in all
undertakings. It was only when a decided advantage seemed
to present itself that they made use of the costly instrument; to
bring about such an opportunity was a general’s art; but until
it was brought about they floated to a certain degree in an
absolute vacuum, there was no ground of action, and all
forces, that is, all designs, seemed to rest. The original motive
of the aggressor faded away in prudence and circumspection.

Thus war, in reality, became a regular game in which Time

and Chance shuffled the cards; but in its signification it was
only diplomacy somewhat intensified, a more vigorous way
of negotiating, in which battles and sieges were substituted
for diplomatic notes. To obtain some moderate advantage in

513
order to make use of it in negotiations for peace was the aim
even of the most ambitious.

This restricted, shrivelled-up form of war proceeded as we

have said, from the narrow basis on which it was supported.
But that excellent generals and kings, like Gustavus
Adolphus, Charles XII, and Frederick the Great, at the head
of armies just as excellent, could not gain more prominence in
the general mass of phenomena – that even these men were
obliged to be contented to remain at the ordinary level of
moderate results, is to be attributed to the balance of power in
Europe. Now that states had become greater, and their centres
further apart from each other, what had formerly been done
through direct perfectly natural interests, proximity, contact,
family connections, personal friendship, to prevent any one
single state among the number from becoming suddenly great
was effected by a higher cultivation of the art of diplomacy.
Political interests, attractions and repulsions developed into a
very refined system so that a cannon shot could not be fired in
Europe without all the Cabinets having some interest in the
occurrence.

A new Alexander must therefore try the use of a good pen as

well as his good sword; and yet he never went very far with
his conquests.

But although Louis XIV had in view to overthrow the balance

of power in Europe, and at the end of the seventeenth century
had already got to such a point as to trouble himself little
about the general feeling of animosity, he carried on war just
as it had heretofore been conducted; for while his army was
certainly that of the greatest and richest monarch in Europe,
in its nature it was just like others.

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Plundering and devastating the enemy’s country, which play
such an important part with Tartars, with ancient nations, and
even in the Middle Ages, were no longer in accordance with
the spirit of the age. They were justly looked upon as
unnecessary barbarity, which might easily induce reprisals,
and which did more injury to the enemy’s subjects than the
enemy’s government, therefore, produced no effect beyond
throwing the nation back many stages in all that relates to
peaceful arts and civilisation. War, therefore, confined itself
more and more, both as regards means and end, to the army
itself. The army, with its fortresses and some prepared
positions, constituted a state in a state, within which the
element of war slowly consumed itself. All Europe rejoiced at
its taking this direction, and held it to be the necessary
consequence of the spirit of progress. Although there lay in
this an error, inasmuch as the progress of the human mind can
never lead to what is absurd, can never make five out of twice
two, as we have already said and must again repeat, still upon
the whole this change had a beneficial effect for the people;
only it is not to be denied that it had a tendency to make war
still more an affair of the state, and to separate it still more
from the interests of the people. The plan of a war on the part
of the state assuming the offensive in those times consisted
generally in the conquest of one or other of the enemy’s
provinces; the plan of the defender was to prevent this; the
particular plan of campaign was to take one or other of the
enemy’s fortresses, or to prevent one of our own from being
taken; it was only when a battle became unavoidable for this
purpose that it was sought for and fought. Whoever fought a
battle without this unavoidable necessity, from mere innate
desire of gaining a victory, was reckoned a general with too
much daring. Generally the campaign passed over with one
siege, or, if it was a very active one, with two sieges, and

515
winter quarters, which were regarded as a necessity, and
during which the faulty arrangements of the one could never
be taken advantage of by the other and in which the mutual
relations of the two parties almost entirely ceased, formed a
distinct limit to the activity which was considered to belong to
one campaign.

If the forces opposed were too much on an equality, or if the

aggressor was decidedly the weaker of the two, then neither
battle nor siege took place, and the whole of the operations of
the campaign pivoted on the maintenance of certain positions
and magazines, and the regular exhaustion of particular
districts of country.

As long as war was universally conducted in this manner, and

the natural limits of its force were so close and obvious, so far
from anything absurd being perceived in it, all was considered
to be in the most regular order; and criticism, which in the
eighteenth century began to turn its attention to the field of art
in war, addressed itself to details without troubling itself
much about the beginning and the end. Thus there was
eminence and perfection of every kind, and even
Field-Marshal Daun – to whom it was chiefly owing that
Frederick the Great completely attained his object, and that
Maria Theresa completely failed in hers – could still pass for
a great general. Only now and again a more penetrating
judgment made its appearance, that is, sound common sense
acknowledged that with superior numbers something positive
should be attained or war is badly conducted, whatever art
may be displayed.

Thus matters stood when the French Revolution broke out;

Austria and Prussia tried their diplomatic art of war; this very

516
soon proved insufficient. Whilst, according to the usual way
of seeing things, all hopes were placed on a very limited
military force in 1793, such a force as no one had any
conception of made its appearance. War had again suddenly
become an affair of the people, and that of a people
numbering thirty millions, everyone of whom regarded
himself as a citizen of the state. Without entering here into the
details of circumstances with which this great phenomenon
was attended, we shall confine ourselves to the results which
interest us at present. By this participation of the people in the
war instead of a Cabinet and an army, a whole nation with its
natural weight came into the scale. Henceforward, the means
available – the efforts which might be called forth – had no
longer any definite limits; the energy with which the war
itself might be conducted had no longer any counterpoise, and
consequently the danger for the adversary had risen to the
extreme.

If the whole war of the Revolution passed over without all

this making itself felt in its full force and becoming quite
evident; if the generals of the Revolution did not persistently
press on to the final extreme, and did not overthrow the
monarchies in Europe; if the German armies now and again
had the opportunity of resisting with success, and checking
for a time the torrent of victory – the cause lay in reality in
that technical incompleteness with which the French had to
contend which showed itself first amongst the common
soldiers, then in the generals, lastly, at the time of the
Directory, in the government itself.

After all this was perfected by the hand of Bonaparte, this

military power, based on the strength of the whole nation,
marched over Europe, smashing everything in pieces so

517
surely and certainly, that where it only encountered the
old-fashioned armies the result was not doubtful for a
moment. A reaction, however, awoke in due time. In Spain,
the war became of itself an affair of the people. In Austria, in
the year 1809, the government commenced extraordinary
efforts, by means of reserves and Landwehr, which were
nearer to the true object, and far surpassed in degree what this
state had hitherto conceived possible. In Russia, in 1812, the
example of Spain and Austria was taken as a pattern, the
enormous dimensions of that empire on the one hand allowed
the preparations, although too long deferred, still to produce
effect; and, on the other hand, intensified the effect produced.
The result was brilliant. In Germany, Prussia rose up the first,
made the war a national cause, and without either money or
credit and with a population reduced one-half, took the field
with an army twice as strong as that of 1806. The rest of
Germany followed the example of Prussia sooner or later, and
Austria, although less energetic than in 1809, still came
forward with more than its usual strength. Thus it was that
Germany and Russia, in the years 1813 and 1814, including
all who took an active part in, or were absorbed in these two
campaigns, appeared against France with about a million of
men.

Under these circumstances, the energy thrown into the

conduct of the war was quite different; and, although not
quite on a level with that of the French, although at some
points timidity was still to be observed, the course of the
campaigns, upon the whole, may be said to have been in the
new, not in the old, style. In eight months the theatre of war
was removed from the Oder to the Seine. Proud Paris had to
bow its head for the first time; and the redoubtable Bonaparte
lay fettered on the ground.

518
Therefore, since the time of Bonaparte, war, through being
first on one side, then again on the other, an affair of the
whole nation, has assumed quite a new nature, or rather it has
approached much nearer to its real nature, to its absolute
perfection. The means then called forth had no visible limit,
the limit losing itself in the energy and enthusiasm of the
government and its subjects. By the extent of the means and
the wide field of possible results, as well as by the powerful
excitement of feeling which prevailed, energy in the conduct
of war was immensely increased; the object of its action was
the downfall of the foe; and not until the enemy lay powerless
on the ground was it supposed to be possible to stop or to
come to any understanding with respect to the mutual objects
of the contest.

Thus, therefore, the element of war, freed from all

conventional restrictions, broke loose, with all its natural
force. The cause was the participation of the people in this
great affair of state, and this participation arose partly from
the effects of the French Revolution on the internal affairs of
countries, partly from the threatening attitude of the French
towards all nations.

Now, whether this will be the case always in future, whether

all wars hereafter in Europe will be carried on with the whole
power of the states, and, consequently, will only take place on
account of great interests closely affecting the people, or
whether a separation of the interests of the government from
those of the people will again gradually arise, would be a
difficult point to settle; least of all shall we take it upon
ourselves to settle it. But everyone will agree with us, that
bounds, which to a certain extent existed only in an
unconsciousness of what is possible, when once thrown

519
down, are not easily built up again; and that, at least,
whenever great interests are in dispute, mutual hostility will
discharge itself in the same manner as it has done in our
times.

We here bring our historical survey to a close, for it was not

our design to give at a gallop some of the principles on which
war has been carried on in each age, but only to show how
each period has had its own peculiar forms of war, its own
restrictive conditions, and its own prejudices. Each period
would, therefore, also keep its own theory of war, even if
everywhere, in early times as well as in later, the task had
been undertaken of working out a theory on philosophical
principles. The events in each age must, therefore, be judged
of in connection with the peculiarities of the time, and only he
who, less through an anxious study of minute details than
through an accurate glance at the whole, can transfer himself
into each particular age, is fit to understand and appreciate its
generals.

But this conduct of war, conditioned by the peculiar relations

of states and of the military force employed, must still always
contain in itself something more general, or rather something
quite general, with which, above everything, theory is
concerned.

The latest period of past time, in which war reached its

absolute strength, contains most of what is of general
application and necessary. But it is just as improbable that
wars henceforth will all have this grand character as that the
wide barriers which have been opened to them will ever be
completely closed again. Therefore, by a theory which only
dwells upon this absolute war, all cases in which external

520
influences alter the nature of war would be excluded or
condemned as false. This cannot be the object of theory,
which ought to be the science of war, not under ideal but
under real circumstances. Theory, therefore, whilst casting a
searching, discriminating and classifying glance at objects,
should always have in view the manifold diversity of causes
from which war may proceed, and should, therefore, so trace
out its great features as to leave room for what is required by
the exigencies of time and the moment.

Accordingly, we must add that the object which everyone

who undertakes war proposes to himself, and the means
which he calls forth, are determined entirely according to the
particular details of his position; on that very account they
will also bear in themselves the character of the time and of
the general relations; lastly, that they are always subject to the
general conclusions to be deduced from the nature of War.

521
Chapter iv

Ends in War More Precisely Defined

The aim of war in conception must always be the overthrow

of the enemy; this is the fundamental idea from which we set
out.

Now, what is this overthrow? It does not always imply as

necessary the complete conquest of the enemy’s country.

[...]

All that theory can here say is as follows: that the great point
is to keep the overruling relations of both parties in view. Out
of them a certain centre of gravity, a centre of power and
movement, will form itself, on which everything depends; and
against this centre of gravity of the enemy, the concentrated
blow of all the forces must be directed.

[...]

Alexander had his centre of gravity in his army, so had

Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII, and Frederick the Great,
and the career of any one of them would soon have been
brought to a close by the destruction of his fighting force: in
states torn by internal dissensions, this centre generally lies in
the capital; in small states dependent on greater ones, it lies
generally in the army of these allies; in a confederacy, it lies
in the unity of interests; in a national insurrection, in the
person of the chief leader, and in public opinion; against these
points the blow must be directed. If the enemy by this loses

522
his balance, no time must be allowed for him to recover it; the
blow must be persistently repeated in the same direction, or,
in other words, the conqueror must always direct his blows
upon the mass, but not against a fraction of the enemy. It is
not by conquering one of the enemy’s provinces, with little
trouble and superior numbers, and preferring the more secure
possession of this unimportant conquest to great results, but
by seeking out constantly the heart of the hostile power, and
staking everything in order to gain all, that we can effectually
strike the enemy to the ground.

But whatever may be the central point of the enemy’s power

against which we are to direct our operations, still the
conquest and destruction of his army is the surest
commencement, and in all cases the most essential.

Hence we think that, according to the majority of ascertained

facts, the following circumstances chiefly bring about the
overthrow of the enemy:

1. Dispersion of his army if it forms, in some degree, a

potential force.

2. Capture of the enemy’s capital city, if it is both the centre

of the power of the state and the seat of political assemblies
and factions.

3. An effectual blow against the principal ally, if he is more

powerful than the enemy himself.

We have always hitherto supposed the enemy in war as a

unity, which is allowable for considerations of a very general
nature. But having said that the subjugation of the enemy lies

523
in the overcoming his resistance, concentrated in the centre of
gravity, we must lay aside this supposition and introduce the
case in which we have to deal with more than one opponent.

If two or more states combine against a third, that

combination constitutes, in a political aspect, only one war, at
the same time this political union has also its degrees.

The question is whether each state in the coalition possesses

an independent interest in, and an independent force with
which to prosecute, the war; or whether there is one amongst
them on whose interests and forces those of the others lean
for support. The more that the last is the case, the easier it is
to look upon the different enemies as one alone, and the more
readily we can simplify our principal enterprise to one great
blow; and as long as this is in any way possible, it is the most
thorough and complete means of success.

We may, therefore, establish it as a principle, that if we can

conquer all our enemies by conquering one of them, the
defeat of that one must be the aim of the war, because in that
one we hit the common centre of gravity of the whole war.

[...]

We now turn more particularly, to the question, When is such

an object possible and advisable?

In the first place, our forces must be sufficient:

1. To gain a decisive victory over those of the enemy.

524
2. To make the expenditure of force which may be necessary
to follow up the victory to a point at which it will no longer
be possible for the enemy to regain his balance.

Next, we must feel sure that in our political situation such a

result will not excite against us new enemies, who may
compel us on the spot to set free our first enemy.

[...]

An operation in war, like everything else upon earth, requires

its time; as a matter of course we cannot walk from Wilna to
Moscow in eight days; but there is no trace to be found in war
of any reciprocal action between time and force, such as takes
place in dynamics.

Time is necessary to both belligerents, and the only question

is: Which of the two, judging by his position, has most reason
to expect special advantages from time? Now (exclusive of
peculiarities in the situation on one side or the other) the
vanquished has plainly the most reason, at the same time
certainly not by dynamic, but by psychological laws. Envy,
jealousy, anxiety for self, as well as now and again
magnanimity, are the natural intercessors for the unfortunate;
they raise up for him on the one hand friends, and on the other
hand weaken and dissolve the coalition amongst his enemies.
Therefore, by delay something advantageous is more likely to
happen for the conquered than for the conqueror. Further, we
must recollect that to make right use of a first victory, as we
have already shown, a great expenditure of force is necessary;
this is not a mere outlay once for all, but has to be kept up like
housekeeping, on a great scale; the forces which have been
sufficient to give us possession of a province are not always

525
sufficient to meet this additional outlay; by degrees the strain
upon our resources becomes greater, until at last it becomes
insupportable; time, therefore, of itself may bring about a
change.

[...]

But if the conquered provinces are sufficiently important, if

there are in them points which are essential to the well-being
of those parts which are not conquered, so that the evil, like a
cancer, is perpetually of itself gnawing further into the
system, then it is possible that the conqueror, although
nothing further is done, may gain more than he loses. Now in
this state of circumstances, if no help comes from without,
then time may complete the work thus commenced; what still
remains unconquered will, perhaps, fall of itself. Thus time
may also become a factor of his forces, but this can only take
place if a return blow from the conquered is no longer
possible, a change of fortune in his favour no longer
conceivable, when, therefore, this factor of his forces is no
longer of any value to the conqueror; for he has accomplished
the chief object, the danger of the culminating point is past, in
short, the enemy is already subdued.

Our object in the above reasoning has been to show clearly

that no conquest can be finished too soon, that spreading it
over a greater space of time than is absolutely necessary for
its completion, instead of facilitating it, makes it more
difficult. If this assertion is true, it is further true also that if
we are strong enough to effect a certain conquest, we must
also be strong enough to do it in one march without
intermediate stations. Of course we do not mean by this

526
without short halts, in order to concentrate the forces, and
make other indispensable arrangements.

By this view, which makes the character of a speedy and

persistent effort towards a decision essential to offensive war,
we think we have completely set aside all grounds for that
theory which, in place of the irresistible continued following
up of victory, would substitute a slow methodical system as
being more sure and prudent.

[...]

527
Chapter v

Ends in War More Precisely Defined (continuation)

We have said that, under the expression ‘overthrow of the

enemy’, we understand the real absolute aim of the ‘act of
war’; now we shall see what remains to be done when the
conditions under which this object might be attained do not
exist.

These conditions presuppose a great physical or moral

superiority, or a great spirit of enterprise, an innate propensity
to extreme hazards. Now where all this is not forth coming,
the aim in the act of war can only be of two kinds; either the
conquest of some small or moderate portion of the enemy’s
country, or the defence of our own until better times; this last
is the usual case in defensive war.

Whether the one or the other of these aims is of the right kind
can always be settled by calling to mind the expression used
in reference to the last. The waiting till more favourable times
implies that we have reason to expect such times hereafter,
and this waiting for, that is, defensive war, is always based on
this prospect; on the other hand, offensive war, that is, the
taking advantage of the present moment, is always
commanded when the future holds out a better prospect, not
to ourselves, but to our adversary.

The third case, which is probably the most common, is when

neither party has anything definite to look for from the future,
when therefore it furnishes no motive for decision. In this
case the offensive war is plainly imperative upon him who is

528
politically the aggressor, that is, who has the positive motive;
for he has taken up arms with that object, and every moment
of time which is lost without any good reason is so much lost
time for him.

We have here decided for offensive or defensive war on

grounds which have nothing to do with the relative forces of
the combatants respectively, and yet it may appear that it
would be nearer right to make the choice of the offensive or
defensive chiefly dependent on the mutual relations of
combatants in point of military strength; our opinion is, that
in doing so we should just leave the right road. The logical
correctness of our simple argument no one will dispute; we
shall now see whether in the concrete case it leads to the
contrary.

Let us suppose a small state which is involved in a contest

with a very superior power, and foresees that with each year
its position will become worse: should it not, if war is
inevitable, make use of the time when its situation is furthest
from the worst? Then it must attack, not because the attack in
itself ensures any advantages – it will rather increase the
disparity of forces – but because this state is under the
necessity of either bringing the matter completely to an issue
before the worst time arrives, or of gaining at least in the
meantime some advantages which it may hereafter turn to
account. This theory cannot appear absurd. But if this small
state is quite certain that the enemy will advance against it,
then, certainly, it can and may make use of the defensive
against its enemy to procure a first advantage; there is then at
any rate no danger of losing time.

529
If, again, we suppose a small state engaged in war with a
greater, and that the future has no influence on their decisions,
still, if the small state is politically the assailant, we demand
of it also that it should go forward to its object.

If it has had the audacity to propose to itself a positive end in

the face of superior numbers, then it must also act, that is,
attack the foe, if the latter does not save it the trouble.
Waiting would be an absurdity; unless at the moment of
execution it has altered its political resolution, a case which
very frequently occurs, and contributes in no small degree to
give wars an indefinite character.

These considerations on the limited object apply to its

connection both with offensive war and defensive war.

[...]

530
Chapter vi

[A. . . . ]

B. War as an Instrument of Policy

Having made the requisite examination on both sides of that

state of antagonism in which the nature of war stands with
relation to other interests of men individually and of the bond
of society, in order not to neglect any of the opposing
elements – an antagonism which is founded in our own
nature, and which, therefore, no philosophy can unravel – we
shall now look for that unity into which, in practical life,
these antagonistic elements combine themselves by partly
neutralising each other.

[...]

Now, this unity is the conception that War is only a part of

political intercourse, therefore by no means an independent
thing in itself.

We know, certainly, that war is only called forth through the

political intercourse of governments and nations; but in
general it is supposed that such intercourse is broken off by
war, and that a totally different state of things ensues, subject
to no laws but its own.

We maintain, on the contrary, that war is nothing but a

continuation of political intercourse, with a mixture of other
means. We say mixed with other means in order thereby to
maintain at the same time that this political intercourse does

531
not cease by the war itself, is not changed into something
quite different, but that, in its essence, it continues to exist,
whatever may be the form of the means which it uses, and
that the chief lines on which the events of the war progress,
and to which they are attached, are only the general features
of policy which run all through the war until peace takes
place. And how can we conceive it to be otherwise? Does the
cessation of diplomatic notes stop the political relations
between different nations and governments? Is not war
merely another kind of writing and language for political
thoughts? It has certainly a grammar of its own, but its logic
is not peculiar to itself.

Accordingly, war can never be separated from political

intercourse, and if, in the consideration of the matter, this is
done in any way, all the threads of the different relations are,
to a certain extent, broken, and we have before us a senseless
thing without an object.

This kind of idea would be indispensable even if war was

perfect war, the perfectly unbridled element of hostility, for
all the circumstances on which it rests, and which determine
its leading features, viz., our own power, the enemy’s power,
allies on both sides, the characteristics of the people and their
governments respectively, etc., as enumerated in the first
chapter of the first book – are they not of a political nature,
and are they not so intimately connected with the whole
political intercourse that it is impossible to separate them?
But this view is doubly indispensable if we reflect that real
war is no such consistent effort tending to an extreme, as it
should be according to the abstract idea, but a half-and-half
thing, a contradiction in itself; that, as such, it cannot follow

532
its own laws, but must be looked upon as a part of another
whole – and this whole is policy.

Policy in making use of war avoids all those rigorous

conclusions which proceed from its nature; it troubles itself
little about final possibilities, confining its attention to
immediate probabilities. If such uncertainty in the whole
action ensues therefrom, if it thereby becomes a sort of game,
the policy of each Cabinet places its confidence in the belief
that in this game it will surpass its neighbour in skill and
sharpsightedness.

Thus policy makes out of the all-overpowering element of

war a mere instrument, changes the tremendous battlesword,
which should be lifted with both hands and the whole power
of the body to strike once for all, into a light handy weapon,
which is even sometimes nothing more than a rapier to
exchange thrusts and feints and parries.

Thus the contradictions in which man, naturally timid,

becomes involved by war may be solved, if we choose to
accept this as a solution.

If war belongs to policy, it will naturally take its character

from thence. If policy is grand and powerful, so also will be
the war, and this may be carried to the point at which war
attains to its absolute form.

In this way of viewing the subject, therefore, we need not shut

out of sight the absolute form of war, we rather keep it
continually in view in the background.

533
Only through this kind of view war recovers unity; only by it
can we see all wars as things of one kind; and it is only
through it that the judgement can obtain the true and perfect
basis and point of view from which great plans may be traced
out and determined upon.

[...]

The only question, therefore, is whether in framing plans for a

war the political point of view should give way to the purely
military (if such a point is conceivable), that is to say, should
disappear altogether, or subordinate itself to it, or whether the
political is to remain the ruling point of view and the military
to be considered subordinate to it.

That the political point of view should end completely when

war begins is only conceivable in contests which are wars of
life and death, from pure hatred: as wars are in reality, they
are, as we before said, only the expressions or manifestations
of policy itself. The subordination of the political point of
view to the military would be contrary to common sense, for
policy has declared the war; it is the intelligent faculty, war
only the instrument, and not the reverse. The subordination of
the military point of view to the political is, therefore, the
only thing which is possible.

If we reflect on the nature of real war, and call to mind what

has been said in the third chapter of this book, that every War
should be viewed above all things according to the probability
of its character, and its leading features as they are to be
deduced from the political forces and proportions, and that
often – indeed we may safely affirm, in our days, almost
always – war is to be regarded as an organic whole, from

534
which the single branches are not to be separated, in which
therefore every individual activity flows into the whole, and
also has its origin in the idea of this whole, then it becomes
certain and palpable to us that the superior standpoint for the
conduct of the war, from which its leading lines must
proceed, can be no other than that of policy.

[...]

In one word, the art of war in its highest point of view is

policy, but, no doubt, a policy which fights battles instead of
writing notes.

According to this view, to leave a great military enterprise, or

the plan for one, to a purely military judgement and decision
is a distinction which cannot be allowed, and is even
prejudicial; indeed, it is an irrational proceeding to consult
professional soldiers on the plan of a war, that they may give
a purely military opinion upon what the Cabinet ought to do;
but still more absurd is the demand of theorists that a
statement of the available means of war should be laid before
the general, that he may draw out a purely military plan for
the war or for a campaign in accordance with those means.
Experience in general also teaches us that notwithstanding the
multifarious branches and scientific character of military art
in the present day, still the leading outlines of a war are
always determined by the Cabinet, that is, if we would use
technical language, by a political not a military organ

This is perfectly natural. None of the principal plans which

are required for a war can be made without an insight into the
political relations; and, in reality, when people speak, as they
often do, of the prejudicial influence of policy on the conduct

535
of a war, they say in reality something very different to what
they intend. It is not this influence but the policy itself which
should be found fault with. If policy is right, that is, if it
succeeds in hitting the object, then it can only act with
advantage on the war. If this influence of policy causes a
divergence from the object, the cause is only to be looked for
in a mistaken policy.

It is only when policy promises itself a wrong effect from

certain military means and measures, an effect opposed to
their nature, that it can exercise a prejudicial effect on war by
the course it prescribes. Just as a person in a language with
which he is not conversant sometimes says what he does not
intend, so policy, when, intending right, may often order
things which do not tally with its own views.

This has happened times without end, and it shows that a

certain knowledge of the nature of war is essential to the
management of political intercourse.

But before going further, we must guard ourselves against a

false interpretation of which this is very susceptible. We are
far from holding the opinion that a War Minister smothered in
official papers, a scientific engineer, or even a soldier who
has been well tried in the field, would, any of them,
necessarily make the best Minister of state where the
sovereign does not act for himself; or in other words, we do
not mean to say that this acquaintance with the nature of war
is the principal qualification for a War Minister; elevation,
superiority of mind, strength of character, these are the
principal qualifications which he must possess; a knowledge
of war may be supplied in one way or the other. France was
never worse advised in its military and political affairs than

536
by the two brothers Belleisle and the Duke of Choiseul,
although all three were good soldiers.

If war is to harmonise entirely with the political views and

policy, to accommodate itself to the means available for war,
there is only one alternative to be recommended when the
statesman and soldier are not combined in one person, which
is, to make the commander-in-chief a member of the Cabinet,
that he may take part in its councils and decisions on
important occasions. But then again, this is only possible
when the Cabinet, that is, the government itself, is near the
theatre of war, so that things can be settled without a serious
waste of time.

[...]

In the last decade of the past century, when that remarkable

change in the art of war in Europe took place by which the
best armies found that a part of their method of war had
become utterly unserviceable, and events were brought about
of a magnitude far beyond what anyone had any previous
conception of, it certainly appeared that a false calculation of
everything was to be laid to the charge of the art of war. It
was plain that while confined by habit within a narrow circle
of conceptions, she had been surprised by the force of a new
state of relations, lying, no doubt, outside that circle, but still
not outside the nature of things.

Those observers who took the most comprehensive view

ascribed the circumstance to the general influence which
policy had exercised for centuries on the art of war, and
undoubtedly to its very great disadvantage, and by which it
had sunk into a half-measure, often into mere sham-fighting.

537
They were right as to fact, but they were wrong in attributing
it to something accidental, or which might have been avoided.

Others thought that everything was to be explained by the

momentary influence of the particular policy of Austria,
Prussia, England, etc., with regard to their own interests
respectively.

But is it true that the real surprise by which men’s minds were
seized was confined to the conduct of war, and did not rather
relate to policy itself? That is: Did the ill success proceed
from the influence of policy on the war, or from a wrong
policy itself?

The prodigious effects of the French Revolution abroad were

evidently brought about much less through new methods and
views introduced by the French in the conduct of war than
through the changes which it wrought in state-craft and civil
administration, in the character of governments, in the
condition of the people, etc. That other governments took a
mistaken view of all these things; that they endeavoured, with
their ordinary means, to hold their own against forces of a
novel kind and overwhelming in strength – all that was a
blunder in policy.

Would it have been possible to perceive and mend this error

by a scheme for the war from a purely military point of view?
Impossible. For if there had been a philosophical strategist,
who merely from the nature of the hostile elements had
foreseen all the consequences, and prophesied remote
possibilities, still it would have been practically impossible to
have turned such wisdom to account.

538
If policy had risen to a just appreciation of the forces which
had sprung up in France, and of the new relations in the
political state of Europe, it might have foreseen the
consequences which must follow in respect to the great
features of war, and it was only in this way that it could arrive
at a correct view of the extent of the means required as well as
of the best use to make of those means.

We may therefore say, that the twenty years’ victories of the

Revolution are chiefly to be ascribed to the erroneous policy
of the governments by which it was opposed.

It is true these errors first displayed themselves in the war,

and the events of the war completely disappointed the
expectations which policy entertained. But this did not take
place because policy neglected to consult its military advisers.
That art of war in which the politician of the day could
believe, namely, that derived from the reality of war at that
time, that which belonged to the policy of the day, that
familiar instrument which policy had hitherto used – that art
of war, I say, was naturally involved in the error of policy,
and therefore could not teach it anything better. It is true that
war itself underwent important alterations both in its nature
and forms, which brought it nearer to its absolute form; but
these changes were not brought about because the French
government had, to a certain extent, delivered itself from the
leading-strings of policy; they arose from an altered policy,
produced by the French Revolution, not only in France, but
over the rest of Europe as well. This policy had called forth
other means and other powers, by which it became possible to
conduct war with a degree of energy which could not have
been thought of otherwise.

539
Therefore, the actual changes in the art of war are a
consequence of alterations in policy; and, so far from being
an argument for the possible separation of the two, they are,
on the contrary, very strong evidence of the intimacy of their
connection.

Therefore, once more: war is an instrument of policy; it must

necessarily bear its character, it must measure with its scale:
the conduct of war, in its great features, is therefore policy
itself, which takes up the sword in place of the pen, but does
not on that account cease to think according to its own laws.

[...]

540
***

541
Chapter ix

Plan of War when the Destruction of the Enemy is the Object

[...]

In conformity with all that has been said on the subject up to

the present, two fundamental principles reign throughout the
whole plan of the war, and serve as a guide for everything
else.

The first is: to reduce the weight of the enemy’s power into as
few centres of gravity as possible, into one if it can be done;
again, to confine the attack against these centres of force to as
few principal undertakings as possible, to one if possible;
lastly, to keep all secondary undertakings as subordinate as
possible. In a word, the first principle is, to concentrate as
much as possible.

The second principle runs thus – to act as swiftly as possible;

therefore, to allow of no delay or detour without sufficient
reason.

The reducing the enemy’s power to one central point depends

–

1. On the nature of its political connection. If it consists of

armies of one power, there is generally no difficulty; if of
allied armies, of which one is acting simply as an ally without
any interest of its own, then the difficulty is not much greater;
if of a coalition for a common object, then it depends on the

542
cordiality of the alliance; we have already treated of this
subject.

2. On the situation of the theatre of war upon which the

different hostile armies make their appearance.

If the enemy’s forces are collected in one army upon one

theatre of war, they constitute in reality a unity, and we need
not inquire further; if they are upon one theatre of war, but in
separate armies, which belong to different powers, there is no
longer absolute unity; there is, however, a sufficient
interdependence of parts for a decisive blow upon one part to
throw down the other in the concussion. If the armies are
posted in theatres of war adjoining each other, and not
separated by any great natural obstacles, then there is in such
case also a decided influence of the one upon the other; but if
the theatres of war are wide apart, if there is neutral territory,
great mountains, etc., intervening between them, then the
influence is very doubtful and improbable as well; if they are
on quite opposite sides of the state against which the war is
made, so that operations directed against them must diverge
on eccentric lines, then almost every trace of connection is at
an end.

[...]

The first consideration in the combination of a plan for a war

is to determine the centres of gravity of the enemy’s power,
and, if possible, to reduce them to one. The second is to unite
the forces which are to be employed against the centre of
force into one great action.

543
Here now the following grounds for dividing our forces may
present themselves:

1. The original position of the military forces, therefore also

the situation of the states engaged in the offensive.

If the concentration of the forces would occasion detours and

loss of time, and the danger of advancing by separate lines is
not too great, then the same may be justifiable on those
grounds; for to effect an unnecessary concentration of forces,
with great loss of time, by which the freshness and rapidity of
the first blow is diminished, would be contrary to the second
leading principle we have laid down. In all cases in which
there is a hope of surprising the enemy in some measure, this
deserves particular attention.

But the case becomes still more important if the attack is

undertaken by allied states which are not situated on a line
directed towards the state attacked – not one behind the other
– but situated side by side.

[...]

2. The attack by separate lines may offer greater results.

As we are now speaking of advancing by separate lines

against one centre of force, we are, therefore, supposing an
advance by converging lines. A separate advance on parallel
or eccentric lines belongs to the rubric of accessory
undertakings, of which we have already spoken.

Now, every convergent attack in strategy, as well as in tactics,

holds out the prospect of great results; for if it succeeds, the

544
consequence is not simply a defeat, but more or less the
cutting off of the enemy. The concentric attack is, therefore,
always that which may lead to the greatest results; but on
account of the separation of the parts of the force, and the
enlargement of the theatre of war, it involves also the most
risk; it is the same here as with attack and defence, the weaker
form holds out the greater results in prospect.

The question therefore is, whether the assailant feels strong

enough to try for this great result.

[...]

After all these reflections, we think that although the

concentric attack is in itself a means of obtaining greater
results, still it should generally only proceed from a previous
separation of the parts composing the whole force, and that
there are few cases in which we should do right in giving up
the shortest and most direct line of operation for the sake of
adopting that form.

3. The breadth of a theatre of war can be a motive for

attacking on separate lines.

If an army on the offensive in its advance from any point

penetrates with success to some distance into the interior of
the enemy’s country, then certainly the space which it
commands is not restricted exactly to the line of road by
which it marches, it will command a margin on each side; still
that will depend very much, if we may use the figure, on the
solidity and cohesion of the opposing state. If the state only
hangs loosely together, if its people are an effeminate race
unaccustomed to war, then, without our taking much trouble,

545
a considerable extent of country will open behind our
victorious army; but if we have to deal with a brave and loyal
population, the space behind our army will form a triangle,
more or less acute.

In order to obviate this evil, the attacking force requires to

regulate its advance on a certain width of front. If the enemy’s
force is concentrated at a particular point, this breadth of front
can only be preserved so long as we are not in contact with
the enemy, and must be contracted as we approach his
position: that is easy to understand.

But if the enemy himself has taken up a position with a

certain extent of front, then there is nothing absurd in a
corresponding extension on our part. We speak here of one
theatre of war, or of several, if they are quite close to each
other. Obviously this is, therefore, the case when, according
to our view, the chief operation is, at the same time, to be
decisive on subordinate points.

But now, can we always run the chance of this? And may we
expose ourselves to the danger which must arise if the
influence of the chief operation is not sufficient to decide at
the minor points? Does not the want of a certain breadth for a
theatre of war deserve special consideration?

Here as well as everywhere else it is impossible to exhaust the

number of combinations which may take place; but we
maintain that, with few exceptions, the decision on the capital
point will carry with it the decision on all minor points.
Therefore, the action should be regulated in conformity with
this principle, in all cases in which the contrary is not evident.

546
[...]

We must, therefore, declare ourselves completely opposed in

principle to the dependence of the chief attack on minor
attacks, and we maintain that an attack directed to the
destruction of the enemy which has not the boldness to shoot,
like the point of an arrow, direct at the heart of the enemy’s
power, can never hit the mark.

4. Lastly, there is still a fourth ground for a separate advance

in the facility which it may afford for subsistence.

It is certainly much pleasanter to march with a small army

through an opulent country, than with a large army through a
poor one; but by suitable measures and with an army
accustomed to privations, the latter is not impossible, and,
therefore, the first should never have such an influence on our
plans as to lead us into a great danger.

We have now done justice to the grounds for a separation of

forces which divides the chief operation into several, and if
the separation takes place on any of these grounds, with a
distinct conception of the object, and after due consideration
of the advantages and disadvantages, we shall not venture to
find fault.

But if, as usually happens, a plan is drawn out by a learned

general staff, merely according to routine; if different theatres
of war, like the squares on a chessboard, must each have its
piece first placed on it before the moves begin, if these moves
approach the aim in complicated lines and relations by dint of
an imaginary profundity in the art of combination, if the
armies are to separate today in order to apply all their skill in

547
reuniting at the greatest risk in fourteen days – then we have a
perfect horror of this abandonment of the direct, simple,
common-sense road to rush intentionally into absolute
confusion.

[...]

We have still now to consider the third part of our first

principle; that is, to keep the subordinate parts as much as
possible in subordination.

Whilst we endeavour to refer the whole of the operations of a

war to one single aim, and try to attain this as far as possible
by one great effort, we deprive the other points of contact of
the states at war with each other of a part of their
independence; they become subordinate actions. If we could
concentrate everything absolutely into one action, then those
points of contact would be completely neutralised; but this is
seldom possible, and, therefore, what we have to do is to keep
them so far within bounds, that they shall not cause the
abstraction of too many forces from the main action.

Next, we maintain that the plan of the war itself should have
this tendency, even if it is not possible to reduce the whole of
the enemy’s resistance to one point; consequently in case we
are placed in the position already mentioned. Of carrying on
two almost quite separate wars at the same time, the one must
always be looked upon as the principal affair to which our
forces and activity are to be chiefly devoted.

In this view, it is advisable only to proceed offensively

against that one principal point, and to preserve the defensive

548
upon all the others. The attack there being only justifiable
when invited by very exceptional circumstances.

Further, we are to carry on this defensive, which takes place

at minor points, with as few troops as possible, and to seek to
avail ourselves of every advantage which the defensive form
can give.

This view applies with still more force to all theatres of war
on which armies come forward belonging to different powers
really, but still such as will be struck when the general centre
of force is struck.

But against the enemy at whom the great blow is aimed, there
must be, according to this, no defensive on minor theatres of
war. The chief attack itself, and the secondary attacks, which
for other reasons are combined with it, make up this blow,
and make every defensive, on points not directly covered by
it, superfluous. All depends on this principal attack; by it
every loss will be compensated. If the forces are sufficient to
make it reasonable to seek for that great decision, then the
possibility of failure can be no ground for guarding oneself
against injury at other points in any event; for just by such a
course this failure will become more probable, and it
therefore constitutes here a contradiction in our action.

This same predominance of the principal action over the

minor must be the principle observed in each of the separate
branches of the attack. But as there are generally ulterior
motives which determine what forces shall advance from one
theatre of war and what from another against the common
centre of the enemy’s power, we only mean here that there
must be an effort to make the chief action overruling, for

549
everything will become simpler and less subject to the
influence of chance events the nearer this state of
preponderance can be attained.

The second principle concerns the rapid use of the forces.

Every unnecessary expenditure of time, every unnecessary

detour, is a waste of power, and therefore contrary to the
principles of strategy.

It is most important always to bear in mind that almost the

only advantage which the offensive possesses is the effect of
surprise at the opening of the scene. Suddenness and
irresistible impetuosity are its strongest pinions; and when the
object is the complete overthrow of the enemy, it can rarely
dispense with them.

By this, therefore, theory demands the shortest way to the

object, and completely excludes from consideration endless
discussions about right and left, here and there.

[...]

We have explained as far as it is possible in a general way

what the total overthrow of the enemy means, and it is
unnecessary to repeat it. Whatever that may depend on at last
in particular cases, still the first step is always the same in all
cases, namely: the destruction of the enemy’s combatant
force, that is, a great victory over the same and its dispersion.
The sooner, which means the nearer our own frontiers, this
victory is sought for, the easier it is; the later, that is, the
further in the heart of the enemy’s country, it is gained, the

550
more decisive it is. Here, as well as everywhere, the facility of
success and its magnitude balance each other.

If we are not so superior to the enemy that the victory is

beyond doubt, then we should, when possible, seek him out,
that is his principal force. We say when possible, for if this
endeavour to find him led to great detours, false directions,
and a loss of time, it might very likely turn out a mistake. If
the enemy’s principal force is not on our road, and our
interests otherwise prevent our going in quest of him, we may
be sure we shall meet with him hereafter, for he will not fail
to place himself in our way. We shall then, as we have just
said, fight under less advantageous circumstances – an evil to
which we must submit. However, if we gain the battle, it will
be so much the more decisive.

From this it follows that, in the case now assumed, it would

be an error to pass by the enemy’s principal force designedly,
if it places itself in our way, at least if we expect thereby to
facilitate a victory.

On the other hand, it follows from what precedes, that if we

have a decided superiority over the enemy’s principal force,
we may designedly pass it by in order at a future time to
deliver a more decisive battle.

We have been speaking of a complete victory, therefore of a

thorough defeat of the enemy, and not of a mere battle gained.
But such a victory requires an enveloping attack, or a battle
with an oblique front, for these two forms always give the
result a decisive character. It is therefore an essential part of a
plan of a war to make arrangements for this movement, both

551
as regards the mass of forces required and the direction to be
given them.

[...]

Once the great victory is gained, the next question is not

about rest, not about taking breath, not about considering, not
about reorganising, etc., etc., but only of pursuit of fresh
blows wherever necessary, of the capture of the enemy’s
capital, of the attack of the armies of his allies, or of whatever
else appears to be a rallying-point for the enemy.

If the tide of victory carries us near the enemy’s fortresses,

the laying siege to them or not will depend on our means. If
we have a great superiority of force it would be a loss of time
not to take them as soon as possible; but if we are not certain
of the further events before us, we must keep the fortresses in
check with as few troops as possible, which precludes any
regular formal sieges. The moment that the siege of a fortress
compels us to suspend our strategic advance, that advance, as
a rule, has reached its culminating point. We demand,
therefore, that the main body should press forward rapidly in
pursuit without any rest; we have already condemned the idea
of allowing the advance towards the principal point being
made dependent on success at secondary points; the
consequence of this is, that in all ordinary cases, our chief
army only keeps behind it a narrow strip of territory which it
can call its own, and which therefore constitutes its theatre of
war. How this weakens the momentum at the head, and the
dangers for the offensive arising therefrom, we have shown
already. Will not this difficulty, will not this intrinsic
counterpoise come to a point which impedes further advance?
Certainly that may occur; but just as we have already insisted

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that it would be a mistake to try to avoid this contracted
theatre of war at the commencement, and for the sake of that
object to rob the advance of its elasticity, so we also now
maintain, that as long as the commander has not yet
overthrown his opponent, as long as he considers himself
strong enough to effect that object, so long must he also
pursue it. He does so perhaps at an increased risk, but also
with the prospect of a greater success. If he reaches a point
which he cannot venture to go beyond, where, in order to
protect his rear, he must extend himself right and left – well,
then, this is most probably his culminating point. The power
of flight is spent, and if the enemy is not subdued, most
probably the opportunity is lost.

All that the assailant now does to intensify his attack by

conquest of fortresses, defiles, provinces, is no doubt still a
slow advance, but it is only of a relative kind, it is no longer
absolute. The enemy is no longer in flight, he is perhaps
preparing a renewed resistance, and it is therefore already
possible that, although the assailant still advances intensively,
the position of the defence is every day improving. In short,
we come back to this, that, as a rule, there is no second spring
after a halt has once been necessary.

Theory therefore only requires that, as long as there is an

intention of destroying the enemy, there must be no cessation
in the advance of the attack; if the commander gives up this
object because it is attended with too great a risk, he does
right to stop and extend his force. Theory only objects to this
when he does it with a view to more readily defeating the
enemy.

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We are not so foolish as to maintain that no instance can be
found of states having been gradually reduced to the utmost
extremity. In the first place, the principle we now maintain is
no absolute truth, to which an exception is impossible, but
one founded only on the ordinary and probable result; next,
we must make a distinction between cases in which the
downfall of a state has been effected by a slow, gradual
process, and those in which the event was the result of a first
campaign. We are here only treating of the latter case, for it is
only in such that there is that tension of forces which either
overcomes the centre of gravity of the weight, or is in danger
of being overcome by it. If in the first year we gain a
moderate advantage, to which in the following we add
another, and thus gradually advance towards one object, there
is nowhere very imminent danger, but it is distributed over
many points. Each pause between one result and another
gives the enemy fresh chances: the effects of the first results
have very little influence on those which follow, often none,
often a negative only, because the enemy recovers himself, or
is perhaps excited to increased resistance, or obtains foreign
aid; whereas, when all is done in one march, the success of
yesterday brings on with itself that of today, one brand lights
itself from another. If there are cases in which states have
been overcome by successive blows – in which, consequently,
Time, generally the patron of the defensive, has proved
adverse – how infinitely more numerous are the instances in
which the designs of the aggressor have by that means utterly
failed. Let us only think of the result of the Seven Years’
War, in which the Austrians sought to attain their object so
comfortably, cautiously, and prudently, that they completely
missed it.

554
In this view, therefore, we cannot at all join in the opinion
that the care which belongs to the preparation of a theatre of
war, and the impulse which urges us onwards, are on a level
in importance, and that the former must, to a certain extent, be
a counterpoise to the latter, but we look upon any evil which
springs out of the forward movement as an unavoidable evil
which only deserves attention when there is no longer hope
for us ahead by the forward movement.

[...]

What we have now said upon a plan of a war in general, and

in this chapter upon those in particular which are directed to
the destruction of the enemy, is intended to give special
prominence to the object of the same, and next to indicate
principles which may serve as guides in the preparation of
ways and means. Our desire has been in this way to give a
clear perception of what is to be, and should be, done in such
a war. We have tried to emphasise the necessary and general,
and to leave a margin for the play of the particular and
accidental; but to exclude all that is arbitrary, unfounded,
trifling, fantastical, or sophistical. If we have succeeded in
this object, we look upon our problem as solved.

Now, if anyone wonders at finding nothing here about turning

rivers, about commanding mountains from their highest
points, about avoiding strong positions, and finding the keys
of a country, he has not understood us, neither does he as yet
understand war in its general relations according to our views.

In preceding books we have characterised these subjects in

general, and we there arrived at the conclusion that they are
much more insignificant in their nature than we should think

555
from their high repute. Therefore, so much the less can or
ought they to play a great part, that is, so far as to influence
the whole plan of a war, when it is a war which has for its
object the destruction of the enemy.

[...]

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